His fingertip draws a line from her throat to her belly. She reaches for him. “I’d like to make love now.”
He lets her pull him toward her. His face looms above hers. Not altogether admiringly he says, “You’re kind of a clever bitch.”
“Trying to save my kid. Necessity,” she says. “You know. The mother of invention.”
They make love in oddly affectionate silence. But afterward he’s still got the knucklebone of suspicion in his teeth and he won’t let it go: he stands at the window and glowers at the rain. “You want to tell me the truth now about you and your kid and your husband?”
“What do you mean?”
“I get the feeling the truth is you just took a walk. There aren’t any child custody rulings, are there? Did you ever file for divorce?”
She broods at him. “What gives you that idea?”
“Your evasiveness, mostly, and a picture I’m compositing of your husband. The macho deer hunting stuff, the way you’ve gone to such extremes to cover your tracks—maybe I’m making unwarranted assumptions but he doesn’t strike me as a guy who’d take kindly to being served with a divorce action.”
“You’re very perceptive, Charlie.”
“Yeah. But you’re going to let me go right on wondering, aren’t you.”
“I just don’t want to get you in unnecessary trouble,” she says. “Trust me.”
“I do, my little valentine. Question is, when are you going to vice the versa?”
43 He awakens her with soft kisses to her forehead and the tip of her nose. “Rise and shine, love of my life. I want to have a look at this crate we’re renting.”
“What’s it like out?”
“Grey. Dewy. Clearing up.”
He climbs out of bed and she watches him pad to the bathroom. She lies back with her eyes shut, listening to the splash of the shower and watching a display of bright fireworks explode across the insides of her eyelids; she is thinking this ought to be a moment of guilt because she oughtn’t to feel so bloody good: it seems somehow a betrayal. This has got to be Ellen’s day …
But why shouldn’t it be my day too?
She sits up, beaming. “It’s going to work. I know it is. Nothing can go wrong today.”
Filled with adrenaline she goes charging into the bathroom, singing at the top of her voice, and opens the frosted glass door and climbs into the shower with him. Charlie laughs at her and she tickles his ribs and in retaliation he’s all over her, soaping her down, sliding his hands over her body.
She reaches up to clasp her hands behind his neck; she stands back at arms’ length and lets him look down at her and she feels good when he likes what he sees.
He has been full of quiet passion: considerate and attentive and easy with a confidence that is not yet quite proprietary.
“You like my boobs, Charlie?”
“I do love them.”
“You don’t think they’re too big or too small or too high or too low or something?”
“Passion flower, your boobs are the most perfect little boobs I’ve ever seen in my life. Just absolutely positively perfect.”
“What do you mean little, you son of a bitch?”
Laughter explodes from him. They struggle for the soap.
When he’s finished shaving and she’s putting on makeup she says, “There are some things I’ve got to buy in town. Child things. You know. Diapers and such. I don’t imagine we want wet upholstery in the airplane. I’ll take a taxi. Meet you at the airfield no later than ten-thirty.”
“All right. That’ll give me time to do the paperwork, make sure the crate’s topped up and ready to go.”
He’s dressed now. Flying boots and khaki chinos, a lumberjack sort of shirt. He finishes shoving things in his suitcase and comes to her; he rests his hands on her bare shoulders and watches her in the mirror. She leans her head back against his abdomen.
“Are you going now?”
“Get dressed and close up your suitcase and I’ll take it with me.”
“I feel strange, Charlie. Like there’s something wrong with me. I ought to be scared to death right now and worried about my kid. I just want to leap back in bed with you.”
“Natural enough, honey sweet. Biology of the beast. Primitive instinct. Happens when we’re just about to go in harm’s way. We get scared and that sets all the juices to flowing. Battle anticipation—combat nerves. Why do you think the birth rate booms in wartime?”
She gets to her feet and turns into his arms, wanting to be held.
44 She knows she’ll be lucky to pluck Ellen away with as much as the clothes on her back. There’ll be no time in that house to stop and gather blankets or toys. She’s going to need everything: baby food and spoon and bottle and toddler clothes sufficient to last several days. She’s got some of these things in her suitcase but there didn’t seem any point weighting it with Gerber jars or thick packages of disposable diapers.
Speeding on the hypodermic of nervous energy she whirls through a supermarket tossing things into a wheeled basket.
Now then. Stop. Breathe. Think. Forgotten anything?
To hell with it. If I did it’ll just have to wait.
There’s only one register open and she has to wait in line behind two matronly customers who are comparing at length the excellences of their respective teenage sons. Each of them has a cart piled high with purchases enough to equip a family for the entire season; and the check-out girl appears to be suffering from a case of terminal inertia.
She has to restrain herself from screaming at them but actually there’s loads of time; it’s only half past nine when she emerges from the store with her loot and settles into the back seat of the taxi.
The driver says, “That was quick. My wife never gets out of there in less than an hour.”
It’s turned into a clear summer’s day, a few cirrus clouds floating high; good flying weather at last.
A few minutes after ten the taxi decants her at the seedy little flying field. The rented Jeep, painted a dark forest green, is parked next to a motorcycle in the shade of what passes for a hangar; the place looks as if it may have seen previous service as a cow barn. Beyond it she sees Charlie in a row of pegged-down light planes, talking with a skinny little man in a cowboy hat. She waves to Charlie, pays off the cab driver and lugs her packages across the dewy grass runway. By the time she reaches the parking area her feet are soaked.
The man in the cowboy hat turns out to be not much more than a kid—Adam’s apple, peach fuzz and acne; he gives her a startled bashful grin of white buck teeth, nods his head several times with jerky nervousness and plunges toward the nearby glass-sided shack in full ungainly retreat.
She says to Charlie, “The grass is wet. Do you think we’ll have trouble?”
“Probably.”
The flat tone of his voice brings her eyes up to his. There’s a mask down over his face; she doesn’t like what she sees.
He says: “You didn’t tell me we’re going in against the fucking Mafia.”
45 The shock of sudden fear makes her furious. “What did that kid tell you?”
“He said it may rain again tomorrow.”
Charlie is very cool. He’s got his arms high, testing an aileron at the back of the wing, moving it up and down with his hands, watching the control yoke inside the plane move from side to side in response.