Their past . . .
The thought of that crackled through her fantasy, shearing it at the foundations and scattering it like so many leaves.
You stupid, lonely hitch—mooning around like some soap-opera housewife.
Why the hell didn't Ford ever ask her any questions about it? That would have made it so much easier. Would have made it seem less like a confession. But that was wrong, too, and she castigated herself: You call him out here to explain things to him, but instead you lie to him and hustle him into bed. He would have understood! He could help! Nothing surprises that man. . . .
Jessica put the kettle on for tea, then walked back into the living room, patting each cat and whispering its name. She stood before the easel, flipped back the dust cover, and considered the painting. The wading man stared back at her, his faceless expression a pale void. She hand-cranked the canvas higher on the easel wings and began to prepare the palette cups, the smell of gesso primer and linseed oil coming strongly from the sketch box. But then the telephone rang.
Well, the big softy is calling to say good night.
Smiling, she went to the phone, picked it up, and her expression changed. She said, "What do you want?" Then: "Goddamn it, Benny, I'm done with all that. No more! Absolutely not! You said we had a deal!" She listened for a time, and her voice grew dulclass="underline" "Okay . . . okay . . . okay." Then she said: "Don't ever call me this late again, you son of a bitch," and slammed down the phone.
The kettle was screaming, and she ran to the kitchen. She was trembling; she wanted to throw something, she wanted to curl up in a fetal position and bawl like a baby.
Instead, she turned off the stove and went back to the easel, forcing a coldness upon herself, knowing that the only escape, for now, was in the oblivion of work, thinking: You've survived worse. . . .
It was nearly 1 A.M. by the time Ford got back to the stilt house, dropping his boat off plane way early just in case the happy sea cow was around. The marina looked sleepy, all the lights shimmering and a few solitary silhouettes on the docks. He turned on the lights of the fish tank. There were the squid, back in among the rocks and the sea anemones. They looked a little pasty, lethargic. That worried him. He'd do a salinity check tomorrow. Check the oxygen content, too.
He went upstairs, put hot water on for tea, tuned in Radio Havana, stripped off his clothes. The fresh water supply was a wooden cistern above and beside the tin roof, heated by the sun. The shower was outside on the side deck, and Ford stood under the shower lathering, rinsing, lathering again. Singing a little bit, too: "Moon River" in Spanish; good old Radio Havana. He was just reaching for his glasses when he heard a noise, someone clearing a throat. And there stood Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, looking starched and athletic, holding one hand against her face like a blinder.
"Hey!"
"My gosh, I thought for sure you had a bathing suit on or something." She was laughing, not looking at him.
"Hold it . . . I've got a towel here—" "People don't do this sort of thing in Iowa, you know. Walking around naked, singing in the middle of the night. I think there are laws against what you do in Iowa. I'm almost sure of it."
"I just put it . . . someplace. Glasses all wet . . . wait; no, that isn't it—"
"It's okay, it's okay, I'm a doctor." Laughing harder, coming up the stairs. "Here—here's your towel," handing him the towel. She stared directly into his eyes as Ford dried himself, amused, but a nice touch of frankness. Ford liked that. He said, "I have some clothes inside." "That's one way to keep them clean. Very innovative." "You and your friends stayed late. I was hoping I'd see you again, but I got held up." Already lying about Jessica. But he was just being friendly, he told himself, a good host, and there really wasn't any question of morality because he expected nothing from Jessica and she expected nothing from him . . . and now he was lying to himself, too.
Dr. Braun-Richards was saying "Two of my friends went back to the hotel. Another is on the blue sailboat . . . probably for the night. For the first couple of hours, I stuck around hoping to see your lab. Then I didn't have a ride. So I've been talking to Jeth. I've heard all about you."
Ford wrapped the towel around his waist, adjusted his glasses. "I can give you a ride. Or you can borrow my bike, my ten-speed. " Which sounded as if he were trying to get rid of her; he could see it in her face. So he added, "But, if you're not in a hurry, I could show you around. I usually stay up late working. " Which seemed to make her feel better. "Jeth told me that. He said you're like a hermit out here. All you do is work in your lab and drink a quart of beer every night. Sounds like a nice life to me, Ford. Oh yeah, he told me something else; told me several times, in fact. He said you never take any time for fun, not even women." Giving that a wry touch, aware of what Jeth was trying to do. "He said you're just too involved with your work. I admire that kind of dedication, but Jeth says you need to relax more. The people at the marina worry about you. Yes, they're very worried about you, Doc Ford."
Jeth the matchmaker; a dangerous avocation for a man who stuttered so badly. Ford was rolling his eyes. He said, "I'm very touched," already computing his recovery needs, all considerations of morality abandoned. After the multiple sessions with Jessica, he wasn't sure his body was up to it, and it wouldn't do to disappoint a doctor. She'd diagnose some kind of structural infirmity, intellectualize it. He said, "Come on. I'll show you around," trying to buy some time.
He did, too, and had a nice talk. Dr. Braun-Richards asked good questions, showed the right interest, had a nice way of listening; smiling, nodding, always a step ahead but willing to wait. When Ford offered again to drive her back to the motel, the doctor said, Tjn not going to be shy about this," sounding a little shy just the same. "Oh?"
"You're going to make me say it? Okay. I'll say it. I leave for Davenport tomorrow, back to the same old routine. But tonight I'm still on vacation. Tonight I'm with a man I like; a man who doesn't live in singles' bars, wear gold chains, patronize women, or seem like the type I'd need to read a blood test before feeling comfortable kissing him." The shyness was gone, and she was closer now, touching his forearm, looking up at him. "I like you, Doc. And I'm in no rush to go back to my motel room."
Ford glanced at his watch. Not even two hours' rest. He kissed her gently and felt her breath warm in his mouth. Then she was in his arms and she shuddered as he touched the small, sharp point of her breast, firm beneath the material of her blouse, but didn't understand at all when he said, "I'm in no rush either. ..."
Two-thirty a.m., and Dr. Braun-Richards said, "You're looking mighty proud of yourself, Dr. Ford," yawning, stretching catlike, as sweaty as if she had just finished five sets at the club.
"What? Naw, not really." Feeling like he should kick the floor and say Ah shucks.
"You've got that kind of smile."
"Well, naw, not really." Staring at her, liking the way she was prettier without clothes; a woman who seemed more at ease naked, comfortable with the animal skin.