CHAPTER THREE

“ARE YOU KIDDING?” CHANDAL DROPPED HER HAIRBRUSH ON the dresser.

Ron stood hunched in the doorway, smoking. “Not at all. I just don’t think it’s anything to get so excited about.”

“Oh, well, pardon me.” Chandal gazed into the mirror stormily meeting her own icy blue eyes.

“Can we talk about this rationally?”

“If you can, I can. I say we should let her see a doctor. The sooner the better.”

“Christ!”

“Look who’s being rational.” Tears welled up suddenly. Angry tears. “Ron, you saw them. The way they all looked at her. Her actions caused a mass departure. When have we ever had a party break up this early? Dwayne and Mimi left without even saying good night.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her!” Ron said fighting back his own temper. “So she hears voices,” he said in a softer tone. He was pleading now. “She’s only six years old, for Chrissakes. Come on, sweetheart. So she has an imaginary playmate. So what? Let’s forget it. All right?”

“Whatever you say,” Chandal flung back at him.

Ron watched as she began to remove her clothes. She unzipped her jeans and slithered out of them, then crossing her arms in front of her, took hold of her blouse and, yanking it over her head, slipped out of it in a single gesture. She was not wearing a bra, only a pair of thinly laced panties. Ron’s eyes lingered on her nakedness, her tight buttocks, the fullness of her breasts. Slowly he moved behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “You smell good,” he said nuzzling her neck. “I love the smell of you.”

“Don’t, Ron.” Chandal tried to wriggle from his grasp.

“Why?”

“Kristy is...”

“Asleep.”

“Please, Ron...” She squirmed free and moved to the bed.

“Okay, okay. I hadn’t realized you were so upset about this.”

“Well, I’m not. See.” She mocked a smile. “It’s forgotten. Now let’s get some sleep. I have to be up early in the morning.” Chandal slipped into bed and wiggled deep under the covers seeming to burrow herself into a self-imposed hole of isolation.

“Hon?” He leaned over her in the bed. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him. “Of course I’m all right.”

He smiled. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Whenever,” she said and rolled over to face the wall.

Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, Ron sat down on the edge of the bed. Forgotten, my ass, he said to himself. Then he studied his reflection in the mirror set into the back of the closet door. His eyes, bloodshot and slightly drunk, seemed more solemn than he would have imagined. He felt a sort of anxiety now as his mind struggled to put things into perspective. Kristy’s behavior tonight was no big deal, he decided conclusively. Although Chandal was making something of it.

By tomorrow or next week, whenever the next smallest incident occurred, she would insist on going the shrink route. Ron didn’t need and, certainly, couldn’t afford that particular solution. Psychiatrists, he had told himself for so long, were a thing of the past for his family and—reluctantly, he finished the thought—he would feel a very personal sense of failure if his six-year-old daughter had to begin visiting a psychiatrist who would look to Chandal and him, no doubt, for his answers. Neglect, permissiveness, oedipal complexes. Ron knew most of the words from friends who had their whole families in analysis or therapy. Not Kristy. Not now. When all the child needed was a little extra attention.

“Del?”

“Humm?”

“Have you thought about the vacation?”

“What!” she said. She was sitting up in bed now. “What?”

He turned and stared at her through a mist of alcohol. “About the vacation. Remember? The month of August. We decided it was time we had—”

“But I thought you said we couldn’t afford it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“The entire month?”

“Why not?”

“August?”

“A good month.”

Unconsciously he had already made the decision. A smile hovered on his lips. “Would you like that?”

“Seriously?” she said. She was propped on her elbows, looking at him in profile.

He was just about to say: “Of course, I’m serious,” but stopped himself. Once he had said yes—it was yes. Chandal was like that. Once something had been set, it was set. There was no changing it. He stared glumly ahead, inhaled deeply, and saw in the mirror the reflection of the glowing red tip of his cigarette. It was the dead quiet part of the night. The time when people went mad with the pull of the moon. The time when hospital corridors were empty places, echoing pain. I’m losing my mind, he thought with mirthful acceptance.

“Think about it before saying yes,” she said, moving closer. “Whatever you decide will be fine with me.”

In the dim light as soft as melted amber, Ron felt the warm length of her thigh pressed against his body. There was so much he wanted to say to her. To ask her. Did she still dream? After all these years, did she still think of the past? He gazed obliquely at her now and found it strange that he could go that far back in time and at the same time could see himself sitting next to her in a room that seemed to be growing darker. Or was it his thoughts that were growing darker?

Shadows shifted and the unnatural thud of his heart beat on as some deep part of him kept pondering an unseen world that was not beautiful, not pleasant, not warm, not large, not small, not of this earth. Yet it had been part of his life.

Now, following her gaze, he leaned back and stared up into her face. He kept his head that way for several moments, before saying: “You’re right. I really should think about it.” His remark seemed to draw no response.

He rose quickly to his feet. Taking a final, deep drag from his cigarette, he crushed it into the ashtray, then turned to look down at her. A sheaf of hair had fallen over her eye and she tossed it back with a quick movement of her head.

The sheet entangled between her leg seemed an ancient style of costume, he thought vaguely. Something Greek, possibly, or perhaps a simplistic ritual of dress. For an instant he pictured a vestal virgin filling her lamp with oil, then the image receded and he found himself utterly alone.

He suddenly wanted to reach out and hold her closely; wanted her to wrap him tightly in her arms, crush him, tell him that everything was going to be all right. That things, all things, were going to be okay. The impulse was so strong, so compelling, yet he stood motionless, his hands now fists held rigidly by his sides.

“I love you, Del,” he said and, without waiting for a reply, turned and left the room.