I laid the paper flat on the table. The old ink stared back at me, the hasty scribble of a woman in love. My eyes fastened on the words Terrible scene. What did that mean? “Because of the war?” I offered.
“She was an American. She wasn’t in any danger.”
I looked up. “But not Lionel. Lionel was English. An officer in the British Army.”
A distant crash made the walls tremble. The front door.
“That was quick.” I folded up Violet’s letter and put it away in my pocketbook. I lifted my cigarette and gave Tibby an assessing look. He was already on his unsteady feet, putting on his overcoat.
“What’s the rush?” I said. “Make yourself at home.”
“I thought I might be a little de trop.” He aimed for dry, but it came out all wet.
“Oh, you would be very much de trop. Deliciously, perfectly de trop. Do you mind taking off your shirt for me?”
“I do.” A touch of huff.
“Well, the jacket and waistcoat, at least.” I stood up and unbuttoned him. “We could loosen the tie a bit. Ruffle your hair.”
Thump thump went the stairs. Those feet, they were not kidding around.
Asked Tibby: “He’s not a large man, is he?”
“Well, he’s not small. But I don’t think he’s violent. And even if he were, he’s a doctor. Do no harm, you know the rest. He’d have an ethical obligation to put you back together again afterward.”
Tibby released his necktie with a sigh and draped it over the sofa arm like a good sport.
“How immensely reassuring,” he said, slurring each s.
Violet
They are flying down the road, while the sun sinks to the left in a pale hot sky. The air rushes against Violet’s face. Lionel drives in silence, gripping the steering wheel with ungloved hands.
Violet stares straight ahead, through the dust and the insect smears to the empty road before them. She’s still wearing her blue gossamer evening dress, and her hair is pinned up, pulling impatiently in the draft. She reaches up and removes the pins, one by one, and shakes her hair free.
“Good,” says Lionel, “I love your hair,” and without warning Violet’s teeth begin to rattle, her chest heaves. She gasps for breath and clenches her fingers around the door frame, the cloth-covered edge of the seat, anything solid at all.
Lionel hits the brakes and swerves to the side. “Oh, damn. Oh, Christ.” He hauls her against him, and she lets herself go, heaving and sobbing into his tweed jacket. “I’m sorry. I should have taken you with me. The bloody bastard. The dirty fucking bastard.”
? ? ?
DUSK DROPS QUIETLY behind the surge of the engine. There’s no moon yet, and Lionel switches on the headlamps. Violet’s eyes grow heavy, her head lolls against the rumbling seat. Lionel’s jacket covers her shoulders, smelling of him, soap, and wind and smoke.
? ? ?
WHEN VIOLET WAKES, the world is silent and tilted. She lifts her head. There is only a scrap of moon, just enough to see by. The motorcar rests on the shoulder of the road, sloping ever so slightly toward a field dotted with shapeless black cows. A shadow of trees looms a few yards away. Next to her, Lionel is fast asleep, his exhausted head tucked at an acute angle into the crevice between his seat and the door frame.
The night is still warm. Violet reaches for Lionel’s shoulders and tugs gently. He resists, muttering something in his chest, and then gives way into her lap.
She strokes his hair and stares at the silver meadow. The cows are motionless; perhaps they’re not cows at all, but stumps or bushes or bales of sun-ripened hay. Lionel’s breath warms her lap. She loves his heavy weight, his hair like mink beneath her hand.
? ? ?
LIONEL JOLTS AWAKE an hour later, nearly falling off the seat. Violet draws him back, rolling him a little, so his face turns up toward her, his black hair gilt with silver, his eyes like mirrors. They watch each other warily.
“It wasn’t a dream,” says Lionel.
“No.” Violet strokes his hair. “It wasn’t a dream.”
She knows it’s up to her, that Lionel will make no move unless she asks him. Is he like that with all women, or just her? She touches his forehead, his sunburnt cheek. With one finger she worries the tiny stubs of his beard.
“No time to shave,” he says.
“No.” Violet plucks at the buttons of his waistcoat. She spreads it open and rests her hand on his ribs, counting the slow rises of his breath, the inner thud of his heartbeat beneath his phosphorescent shirt. The living Lionel.
As if this is the signal he’s been waiting for, Lionel reaches for her with both arms and buries himself in her neck, her breast, her warm belly.
? ? ?