“I guess—” She laughed. Everything was light. The world was full of light. “I guess I wanted to finally get over it. I didn’t even know what I was doing. It was God’s plan, not mine.”
At the naming of God, Bradley let go of her. He ran a hand through what was left of his hair.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s not—I have a perfectly nice lady friend from work. Better than I deserve.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just—she isn’t you.”
“Well. I suppose no one is, except me.”
“Her family’s Japanese. She does our books.”
“And I’m so grateful that you mentioned that.” She picked up her purse and clicked it shut. “I’d hate to think of you alone.”
To walk away from his house without having surrendered herself—to be bathed in God’s approval; to know, for once, that she de served it—was immeasurably better than to surrender. She felt so elated, she almost floated to her car. And she recognized this elation. A similar feeling had filled her thirty years ago, after Bradley, at a Carpenter’s drive-in, had ended their affair. It was true that the earlier elation had only intensified her obsession, had unspooled into madness, the making and unmaking of a baby. But this time it was she who’d done the ending. This time, the elation was of God, and she was sure that He would keep her safe.
To survive the grandkids, she’d promised herself a cigarette, but now she saw that she didn’t have to smoke. God took and took, but He also gave and gave. Freed of the ghost of Bradley, freed of the morbid urgency of dieting, she could be free of cigarettes, too. Her elation held until, north of downtown, the freeway traffic came to a dead halt. She wanted to get back to Pasadena in time to swim before dinner, to be enveloped by water, and the traffic jam infuriated her. It turned out that she needed to smoke after all. And there was something else, a nasty little itch. With a glance at the car to her left, she felt herself between her legs. It was shocking how Bradley’s assault, which had left her unmoved in the moment, now aroused her. Would it really have been so bad to give him what he wanted? For the sake of her private parts, which three months of longing had tantalized and primed, she was sorry that she hadn’t. Smoke was drifting from the driver’s side of the car in front of her. She unrolled her own window and punched the lighter on the dashboard.
Antonio’s apartment, when she finally got back, smelled of fried onions. The Monopoly box was on the living-room coffee table, evidence of an afternoon of fun. As soon as Antonio heard her, he came hurrying from the kitchen.
“Russ called. You need to call him back.”
She wondered if Russ had somehow sensed, via God, the choice she’d made; if he missed her, too. But a foreboding told her otherwise. God gave and God took. There was no phone service in Kitsillie.
“Did he say what it was about?”
“Just to call him right away. He left three different numbers.”
“Where’s Judson?”
“He’s grating cheese. I left the numbers by the bedroom phone.”
And so began the remainder of her life. In the glass doors of the master bedroom was a lovely honey-toned light, in the garden the cheeping of birds, from the swimming pool the shouts of children, from the kitchen a smell of fried onions and beef, above Jimmy’s bare dresser his painting of the old Flagstaff post office, atop the other dresser a sepia photograph of Antonio’s mother in a filigreed silver frame: the first impressions were the ones that stayed with you forever.
Russ’s voice was piteously pinched. He was at a hospital in Farmington, New Mexico, and Perry was—sleeping. They had him heavily sedated. The attempt—he’d tried to—dear God, he’d tried to harm himself. They’d brought him to the hospital, his head was bandaged, he was heavily sedated. Thank God, thank God, the juvenile hall hadn’t wanted him—at least the police knew enough to take away his shoelaces. All he could do to himself—all he had was an ugly bump on his forehead. But the reason—what had happened was—he’d burned down a farm building on the reservation. And then felony drug possession. Felony—two felonies. The lawyer—it was a mess—the crimes were federal but Perry was not of sound mind. They were taking him to Albuquerque in the morning because nobody in Farmington wanted the responsibility. The cops didn’t want him, the sheriff didn’t want him, the hospital didn’t want him, the juvenile hall absolutely didn’t want him—there was a place for mentally ill minors in Albuquerque. If she could get a flight to Albuquerque, he could meet her at the airport.