How silent they had been in the car. Tom had whispered, “Sad bunnies.” Freya hadn’t even mouthed “hello” to Adele. As they trudged away from the car, Freya had taken Tom’s hand in solidarity—the suckiness of adults. Kay drove on to the drug store in East Montrose, her hand wrapped in a dish towel. The pain was sharper than the muffled ache in her head, but they worked in concert—loud, smashing cymbals in her hand to accompany the dry brum-brum-brrrummmmm drumming in her head. The physical pain still occluded the shame trying to feather the edge of her thoughts: I called my daughter a bitch. Squeezing her hand, she welcomed the fresh, clear clash of pain. She found the first aid aisle, scanned for antibiotic ointment and dressings, threw sufficient quantities in her shopping basket.
“Hey.”
She knew the voice. She turned and he was right there. He saw the dish towel. “What happened to you?”
*
He followed her back to the house, led her into the kitchen, and held her hand under the cold running water, wincing himself. “You poor girl.” He’d exchanged her ointment and dressings for silver sulfadiazine and plastic wrap, something he’d learned from a field-medic course in the Marines. Smearing the cream over the plastic, he then carefully wrapped the mitt of her hand. As the burn had affected several fingers, he cut smaller strips to individually dress. When this was done, he swaddled the whole hand in a bandage.
“Better now?”
She should have moved away from him. She should have stepped back—always the shshshshush of should should should. She should say “thank you” and offer him a cup of coffee. But instead hot, treacherous tears rolled down her face.
“Kay,” he said, and she shut her eyes, the tears dripping off her chin. She wished he was not kind. She leaned in, did not intend to but it was unavoidable, gravity pulling her, the weight of her own pride leaning like Pisa against him. He put his arms around her, held her. She sobbed like a child. She could not remember when she had last been held by Michael.
Right then, right then was the moment for her to say, “You’d better leave. I’m sorry, this has been a mistake.” And he’d leave, he’d go quietly, politely, cap in hand. She would never see him again. He would be just a man she never slept with, any man, any man at all.
Instead, she took his hand. She led him upstairs to her office with its single bed. She started to take off her clothes, but he stopped her.
“No, let me. I want to.”
His fingers fumbled with the little buttons of her dress, and when they were undone, he peeled the fabric back off her shoulders, so it hung from her waist. His hands were on her skin, her breasts, up her back, the nape of her neck and he kissed her.
He kissed her like a boyfriend, tenderly, with a kind of wonder, the kisses she hadn’t had for years and years, the kisses lost to vodka and war and marriage. Her body became liquid, permeable. He took her good hand and put it over the front of his jeans so she could feel how hard he was. She couldn’t unbutton his jeans, so he did it for her.
There were things they could do, there were techniques, his fingers, her mouth. But Kay just needed him inside her. She wanted that uncomplicated proximity. She took him to the bed, they lay down, he did not stop kissing her. She could smell herself, her arousal, and they moved each other, articulated their limbs, so that he could be inside her, lodged deep, and with their mouths they were inside each other. They were disappearing.
*
Hours. Shadows wandered across the room. She’d forgotten that she’d called her daughter a bitch. Now, remembering, she let self-disgust wash over her. How odd to be undergoing such an intense emotion, and this man knew nothing, felt nothing of it—he could not judge her failure—and this relieved her. She was a lover, anonymous, functional. She lay with her head on Ben’s shoulder. He did not move, and she half-wondered if he was asleep. Glancing up, she saw his eyes were open.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“Yes. Are you?”
“I was just going in to buy some Tylenol.”
“You mean this doesn’t happen every time you go to Kinney Drugs?”
He laughed softly. “Not every time.”
She put her chin on his chest. “Are you married?”
“No. But you are.”
“But he’s gone. Left.”
“Is this a revenge fuck then?”
“It’s just a fuck.”
Sliding his hand down her waist to her hip, he traced the vivid keloid scar across her belly. It traversed from hip to hip, as if she’d been torn in half. “Are you sure about that?”
His eyes were on hers. She turned her head away, and he moved down, kissing the scar.
*
When they were done with each other, he gathered his clothes and walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower. He had a certain ease in how he moved about the rooms. He knew the house, just as he knew Frank. She wondered if he also knew of Frank’s cupboard, for she might reveal it to him and see surprise or familiarity. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the immediacy of him, their sex—to have him dismiss her again. She was still damp from him. She followed him, studying him: the lean structure of him, the fine, long muscles and tanned forearms. In his frame, he saw both her son and her husband—the otherness of men.
He caught her looking; this seemed to embarrass him, and he turned away as he washed himself.
“Where are your kids?
“Camp.”
“Which camp?”
“Are we chatting? Is this a chat?”
“Sure.” He made a smile, his lovely, pretty actress smile. “Why not have a chat.”
“They’re at Kamp Wahoo.”
“Takes you, what? About an hour, there and back?”
“About that.”
“Do they like it?”
“They love it.”
“I’ve heard great things about it. I might send my son next summer.”
Kay thought of the boy outside the trailer. Jake, get the fuck inside. The woman in pink leggings—the sordid air about her. My son. So what was his relationship with the woman? Kay felt the greasy smear of jealousy. She picked up her phone; she wanted to put something between herself and Ben—the old habit, as Marco and Sam did with their cameras, as she did with her notebooks.
And as Ben washed his face, eyes closed, Kay took his picture.
He got out of the shower. He dried himself.
“How’s your hand?” he said as he dressed.
“It’s okay, better. Thank you.”
There was no kiss. He did not even look back.