Sinister Shorts

“Don't you?” he asked again.

“I do believe it,” she said, “but… Claude, you must know this. You married a different woman. I'll never be the person I was again, no matter what happens to my health from here on out. And sometimes I think… you love her, not me.”

“Silly!” He ruffled her hair. “I love you. Warts and all.”

Another old joke, remarkably ungraceful under the circumstances, but it just pointed out how upset he was by the direction she was taking. His charm was buried behind the urgency of the moment.

Still, she plowed onward. “And your love is so strong, I'm knocked down by it. It's too big for me, the woman I am now. I can't stand up to it.” Literally, she thought, her pulse stuttering. This was the closest she had come to honesty in months, and she felt the gusher ready to pour out a flood of real feelings. With effort, she restrained herself and stopped her mouth.

“You don't have to stand up alone. I'll help you. I'll be with you to the end, Clea. Now, please. Stop these dark thoughts. Have you been taking those antidepressants they prescribed? Because…”

“You've made me so happy, as happy as a man could make a woman. You're a wonderful man.” Damn her traitorous emotions. She jabbed at the tears with a knuckle, continuing in her mind what she found impossible to say: “I find our relationship draining. You hold me up higher than I need to be held, and I pretend, God help me, wishing that I could love you the same. I can't. I'm not capable. We're no good together.”

Too late. He had seen the tears. He licked them like salt, greedily. She could almost see his body puff up with purpose. “I'm here by your side, like always.” He stepped in closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Tell you what. Let's talk to your doctor tomorrow and together we'll get things straight, okay?”

“Don't do this…”

“I'm making us some di

Leave this house, she thought.

If only the strength of her decision could communicate itself through her thoughts, but except with perfumes, where every subtlety registered, Claude was not a sensitive person.

If she had the guts to make the demand, how would he react? She knew. He would be grieved that she could make such a suggestion, then he would suggest calling the doctor sooner, to get a read on where the medicine was failing, because it had to be failing or she could never entertain such thoughts.

And then, if she could make him listen long enough to register that she meant what she said, he would refuse to leave. He couldn't imagine her living without him.

The house belonged to her. She could make him leave legally. She imagined calling the family lawyer, the scenes. Why, they might even call in psychologists, because she must be insane to think she could make it without this loyal, loving man.

And then there was the injury she would inflict on his heart… how could she find the words?

In their shared silence, they both remembered it all.

He plucked the empty glass out of her hand and headed out of the room. “Let me get you some water, darling, to wet down that whiskey. I don't think that was such a good idea. I've got halibut, artichoke, lemons. Sound good? Let's see what other goodies Lucy has stocked for us. Good food will get us back on track.”

She watched his back go and her glass bobbling away.

In the kitchen, rendered immaculate by Lucy, Claude rinsed his mouth, and then his face all the way up to the roots of his hair. That kiss… but, on the whole he felt things had gone rather smoothly. He had said the right words, communicated the heartfelt commitment he felt to her, maybe for the last time. Her tears proved she was with him, entirely with him, as she should be.

He carried a tall glass of ice water in to Clea, handing it to her without a word.

Rooting around in the refrigerator, he found a few things he could use, some fresh herbs that smelled of garden parties, fresh salmon, which smelled of the sea. That would go down even better than halibut. Humming to himself, he grated some bread crumbs, mixed them with dill, rosemary, and a number of other more obscure spices she loved, and set the salmon on to broil. Ordinarily, he would grill the fish, but it was very late. He could see from the bags under her eyes Clea was tired. She would not make it much longer. He wanted this di

While the food cooked, he set the table in the dining room very carefully, using the ironed white cloth, the hammered silver candlesticks, the best silver, her family silver. He lined the implements up neatly beside porcelain plates and studied the results. Something missing… out in the backyard, with the help of a flashlight, he discovered a few silver-colored roses drooping on a bush, at that perfect, ripe point in their existence, redolent with the heat and lazy summer days past. He stuck his face in the bouquet and drank their scent before arranging them neatly in a clear glass vase.

“Darling, it's ready,” he a

Clea rolled up to the table. “I'm not very hungry,” she said tentatively.

He understood, oh, he did. Overcome by the emotional weight of the moment, she felt unable to carry it. Ignoring her worries, he served up the di

He felt satisfied.

She would go to bed full. She would go to bed with all her recent, unsettling foolish notions put to rest, emotionally and psychically fulfilled.

Only one more thing to make a perfect happy ending.

She did as much as she could to prepare herself for bed without his help. She wheeled herself into the accessible shower, a concession to her disability she thought Claude would never accept but which her mother had insisted upon. She brushed her teeth ferociously, but retouched her makeup, remembering nights long ago when she never went to bed without renewing it.

Putting on her easiest nightie she waited for him to help her heave herself onto the left side of the bed.

He splayed an arm there, awaiting her head.

Hell.

Do I open the conversation, or not?

Do I allow the time to pass? Because many nights, in spite of her own obligations, the nurse stayed. Claude paid her enough to stay, stay, stay.

They were not alone so often.

The salmon balled in her stomach like sludge. The salad, made of the freshest ingredients, made her think she might need the bathroom.

She resisted. This fight she could wage. She needed to control things, her digestion, her wasting limbs. Why, lately, she had enjoyed a faint reminder of her old life, when her foot would jerk or a leg would feel tired. She knew the doctor called this “phantom,” and what an apt description that was.

“Claude, are you awake?” She thought she could detect the quiet of his non-sleeping.

“Mmm,” he said.

“Have you ever thought of living without me? How it would be?” Silence. “You could be free again.” No response. She assumed he was listening by the expectant hush of his breath. “You don't have to worry. I would give you money.” This crass reduction of her complicated feelings to words made her cringe with self-disgust. After speaking lines of grandeur and wisdom all her adult life, when it came to providing her own script, she bombed. “I don't mean it that way,” she said. “That's not what I mean. I mean, we've been happy, haven't we? And now, it's time to move on. This is not about me being depressed, or you leaving some feeble woman behind. This is about us moving on, making new lives and new happinesses. Claude?”