On their first anniversary they drove out to La Jolla for dinner, to the Casa del Mar, where Jack had proposed to her. They went early and sat at one of the tables by the tinted, out-slanted windows, where they could watch the day fade and the waves moiling over the black-wet rocks beneath the window.
They had steaks smothered in some kind of honey sauce, and wine. The dining room was dark, each table lit by a cone of light from a shaded candle, and Gene watched the light flicker on Jack’s face; the shadows deep in his eyes, his chin and forehead highlighted, the thin, relaxed line of his mouth sharply etched. They talked about her job and his and about the tractors they were going to buy. They argued about the exact amount of money they had in the bank and Jack’s leg was pressed hard and tight against hers under the table, and she had never loved him so much.
When they had finished their steaks and had fallen silent, she said softly, “Jack, it’s been a good year.”
He put his hand across the table and she laid her hand in his and he closed his fingers around it. “Do you think so?” he asked.
“Don’t you?”
“We got off to a bad start,” Jack said, and he moved his head to one side so that the light lost his face.
“That doesn’t matter anymore. Everything’s perfect now.”
Jack took the wine bottle from the sweating bucket and filled their glasses. “Everything’s perfect now,” Gene said again. “Jack, I’m awfully glad we’re married, aren’t you?”
She saw him nod. After a moment, he said, “Gene, you’ve been damn fine.”
She closed her eyes and smiled and took a drink of her wine. She could feel herself getting tight but she didn’t mind tonight. When she opened her eyes the waiter had wheeled a table over next to theirs, and on the table was a huge crystal bowl of cherries. They had ordered Cherries Diablo; they hadn’t known what it was, but it was the most expensive dessert on the menu.
The waiter struck a match and lit the liquid around the cherries, and blue flames leaped up. The flames danced weirdly and sent shadows shivering across the ceiling and lit Jack’s face until he looked like a devil, and as they slowly died and the room was dark once more, Gene heard footsteps brush past and stop behind her.
When she had finished her cherries, she looked up at Jack. His leg had moved away and in the light of the candle his face looked hard and twisted and ugly. His lips were pulled back against his teeth and he was staring past her.
“Why, Jack, what’s the matter?”
His eyes flickered quickly to hers. He stared at her as though he hated her, and suddenly she was afraid. “Don’t you feel well, Jack?”
“Let’s get out of here,” he said harshly.
“But don’t you want any coffee?”
He flung his napkin onto the table. “Those damn cherries,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, knocking against the table so that the cups rattled in the saucers.
He waited impatiently, almost angrily, until she rose, and then he followed her to the lobby, treading on her heels. In the lobby she turned and put her hand on his arm.
“Are you sick, darling?”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, and now his eyes avoided hers. His cheek muscles were bunched tightly, his mouth was thin and bloodless; she looked at him worriedly and then she went into the powder room to put on lipstick. When she came out he was gone and she waited in the lobby, watching the door to the men’s room. But suddenly he was at her side and he grasped her arm roughly and pulled her toward the door.
In the car he still did not speak, and he would not look at her. He was driving too fast and he cursed under his breath when they had to wait for a stop light. “Please, Jack,” Gene said. “What is it? Won’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Was it something I said?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing, damn it. Nothing!”
And at the apartment he did not undress when she did, sitting in the big chair in the living room. He picked up a magazine, paged through it rapidly, and threw it down when she came in from the bedroom to turn on the light so he could see better. She had put on the nightgown she had pressed before he had come home that evening and carefully combed her hair, and she stared down at him, biting her lip. He sat slumped in the chair, his body somehow sunken in it, and his trousers were pulled tight over his knees. She knelt beside the arm of the chair; she could feel the tears pushing at the backs of her eyes.
“Tell me what’s the matter, Jack,” she pleaded.
His voice was harsh, and his glance was angry but at the same time ashamed. “Nothing,” he said. “Goddamn it, I told you there’s nothing wrong. Just leave me alone.”
The phone rang. He jumped up and snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Hello?” he said. He waited. “Yeah, yeah… Okay. Yeah, I’ll be right out.” He hung up and turned toward Gene as she slowly got to her feet.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, almost defiantly.
“Where? Out to the job?”
“Yeah.” He moved toward the door and Gene took a step after him.
“Jack, what’s the matter? Jack, it’s our…” She stopped as blue, flickering terror gripped her heart and she felt as though she could not breathe. He had been talking to V; he was going to V.
He snatched his coat from the back of a chair. It skewed across his back as he thrust his hands at the armholes. The door slammed shut behind him.
Gene stood motionless, frozen. She heard the quick grind of the starter. She heard the motor race and the car rush off. She bent her head to look at the smooth silk of the nightgown that covered her body, and ran her hands down over her chest until they fell naturally to her sides. When she turned away from the door she was crying. Terrible sobs shook the body he did not want, and she stumbled toward the bedroom, weak with helpless rage and self-pity and hate.