She’s pretty sure what she’s expected to say: Of course. Who doesn’t? The truth is that this town, Belleville, the Delaware shore—that’s about as far as she’s gotten from Baltimore in her time. And Frostburg, but she doesn’t count that. Not like she got outside much.
“Where’d you go to school?” she asks.
“Oberlin. That’s in Ohio.”
She wants to say, I know. Except she didn’t.
“You’re not from Baltimore.”
“I’m not, as it happens, but going to college in Ohio doesn’t mean you’re not from Baltimore. What makes you think I’m not a Baltimorean? I’ve lived there almost three years.”
Almost three years. Good to know.
“You ask a Baltimore person where they went to school, they tell you their high school. Dundalk for me. I started community college, then I dropped out. So, yeah, I guess you can say I went to college.”
They are dry now, but still naked. She moves to the kitchen, stands in front of her refrigerator. She can’t figure out if she is hungry or thirsty. The only appetite she can gauge is her desire for him. Eggs. She should make him eggs. No one ever cooks for the cook.
“Why did you drop out?”
She shrugs, taking out the carton of eggs, cracks four into a bowl. “I was young and stupid. Didn’t see what the point was. Maybe I’ll go back one day. Anyway, what are you going to do about Cath? Don’t be unkind. It’s not her fault—”
He has crept up behind her and she turns, kisses him. He gets almost too excited and she backs away, goes to light the stove. It’s a fussy old thing, often takes two, three match strikes to light. The Bakelite handles are loose and will be impossible to replace if they strip all the way. But she thinks it’s beautiful, rounded in a way that stoves aren’t anymore, the white enamel faded to a yellowish ivory. It reminds her of a pickup she saw once and coveted, a 1950s Studebaker. But maybe it was the man who drove the truck that she really wanted. All she saw was his forearm and a bit of his face, but he looked like someone who would take care of a woman. For days, she daydreamed about jumping into the bed of that truck, going home with that man.
“What are you going to do,” she repeats. “About Cath.”
“I guess I’ll call her, ask her to meet me somewhere.”
“You think that’s the kindest way?”
“Isn’t it?” Genuinely confused. Good.
“I know, it seems like it should be, but—my two cents, as a woman? Act as if y’all were never together. Like it was all in her head. Be courteous, but don’t get drawn into conversations. If she asks to talk or calls you—keep it short. When she asks to get together, say you can’t, no explanations. That’s a clean break. I hate to say it about my own sex, but women see any scrap of kindness as a promise. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to keep her from thinking she has a chance with you.” Tiny pause. “Unless she does? Maybe this was just a onetime thing for you?”
He doesn’t speak for a while and she’s worried she’s misjudged him, that last night and today have been nothing more than the passion and excitement fueled by the encounter with Gregg. It won’t be the first time she’s read a man wrong. Yet she was sure this man wanted her, although there was something he was fighting in his own nature. A wife, probably. His story doesn’t add up. The travel, the “seasonal” work, the shiny new truck. Yes, there’s probably a woman and a kid or two somewhere. Maybe he has families stashed all over the country and that’s why he’s so big on traveling.
“Okay,” he says. “I want to do what’s right.”
He has to know what she’s saying is too good to be true. Good Lord, if this were the kindest way to break up with a woman, that would be the greatest thing that ever happened to men. Maybe she should write an advice book for men, one that tells them everything they want to hear, as opposed to all those books for women, which tell them to be the opposite of what they are, no matter what that is.
If she wrote an advice book for women, it would basically say: Tell men what they want to hear. What they think they want to hear. But it wouldn’t do anyone any good, because most women aren’t her. It’s not her looks or her body. Her looks are only slightly above average, her body didn’t come into its own until she had all those long empty days to exercise. Besides, she would never invest so heavily in a commodity that won’t last forever. It’s how she is on the inside that makes her different from other women. She fixes her gaze on the goal and never loses sight of it.
The goal is never a man. Never. Men are the stones she jumps to, one after another, toward the goal. She’s getting closer. Thank God she’s patient. She never figured this to take so long, but you can’t plan for every contingency.
And now she’s thrown a monkey wrench into her own works. But he’s planning to leave this fall and that suits her just fine. She’ll have moved on by then, too.
He eats the eggs from the pan, standing up. She starts kissing him again, but gentle, sweet ones, as if she doesn’t know where it’s going to go. She doesn’t want him to think, I’m being rewarded. If he makes the conscious connection, that’s no good. Moaning, he picks her up, carries her back to the bedroom, tosses her on the bed. The sheets are damp, almost as if dew has fallen on them. She’s going to have to get to the Laundromat at some point today.
The morning is warm, but not unbearable, not yet. She doesn’t have AC, not even in the bedroom, only a box fan in the window. Set to high, it’s loud enough to drown out the noise he’s about to start making.
She asks innocently, “Don’t you want coffee? I can—” Then lets him cover her with him. There’s always a quick moment of panic when a man is on top of her, but she gets through it.
“One more thing,” she tells him, not sure if he’s the kind of guy who can hear or understand anything at this point. “At work, we’re a secret. Which means we’re a secret in this town. This will be the last time you leave my place in daylight.”
He grunts. A yes? She’s pretty sure he would agree to anything she said right now.
*
By the end of the week, Cath’s eyes are red all the time, just big and sad and wretched looking. Polly takes her into the bathroom for a confidential talk.
“Adam won’t even speak to me,” she sobs, sitting on the closed toilet. “I think he’s seeing someone else, but he says no. He acts like he doesn’t owe me anything. It’s like we were never together at all.”
“Men,” Polly says, tearing off a piece of toilet paper and handing it to her. “You’re better off without that asshole. He probably thinks he’s being kind, but this is anything but.”
13
Adam tries to tell himself that Plan B is superior to Plan A in every way. No, he shouldn’t be sleeping with her, but she’s the one who wants to keep it a secret. He didn’t see that coming. Most women like to stake their claim publicly. His client doesn’t have to know that he’s crossed the line. His client won’t care, as long as the job gets done.
Adam’s the one who cares. He’s an ethical guy. He’s never done anything like this. But he can’t stop. When he leaves her at 3 a.m., 4 a.m., never later than 5 a.m., he sometimes has trouble remembering why he was supposed to get to know her in the first place.
And although his client doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, he’s not exactly pleased with Adam.
“What’s taking so long?” the client demands in their next phone call.
“First of all, this whole thing is an improvisation, right? If I didn’t get a job in that place, I couldn’t keep tabs on her.”
“But you must have learned something, working alongside her.”
Working alongside her. Sure, let’s call it that.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Adam says. “And she doesn’t have a car. So unless it’s stashed somewhere here in Belleville—”
“That’s an idea.”
“No. She’s never been here before in her life.”
“I thought you said she didn’t talk.”