The Remedy for Love: A Novel Page 15

  “Getting a little fucking cold,” Danielle said when he returned.

  He handed her the shampoo and she laughed, that chirp and burble of hers.

  “Dunk it under to thaw it,” he said, and turned his attention to the stove. The smaller pots were boiling hard.

  This time she just threw her two legs over the side of the slipper, lifted herself off the floor of the tub, left a spot for him to pour, things to see. Instead, however, he pictured the hot water mixing fast with the cooler and swirling up under her bum, didn’t want to burn her.

  “Woo, mister,” she said.

  “Too hot?”

  “Very hot,” she said. Then, “Jesus, look at my fucking legs.” She turned them this way and that on the lip of the slipper.

  “They’re fine,” Eric said.

  “You mind if I wash my hair in your water?”

  “Go ahead, yes, of course it’s okay. There’s enough fresh I think. And soap is soap. Damn.”

  “Damn, what?”

  “I was just lamenting. I bought razors. Behind you in line at Hannaford? Cheese and wine and scallions and razors, of all things. But I left them in the car.”

  “No you didn’t. They’re here. I hosed you about them, remember? But I’m not going to shave in front of everybody, and not in your bathwater. Or maybe. But I’ll do it after you’re done. And what is it with you bringing all the shit I need? A little creepy, don’t you think?”

  “Well, it was all for Alison.”

  “Alison this and Alison that.” She drew her legs back under the water, pointed at his chair. He was to keep her company, sit just behind, and watch the gaze, bub.

  She washed her hair with the thawing Breck shampoo twice and plumped a good blob of the thickened conditioner on her head and waited. The fragrance was mild, floral, carried him back over mountain ranges to his Indiana home, to his sisters, his parents, his hours in the tub with model ships and washcloths, first experiments toward jerking off, which later like everyone else in the world he’d master. Danielle’s hair looked better globbed with conditioner than it had looked at any time since he’d first seen her.

  Danielle said, “Let’s work on my hair.” She dunked, rinsed the conditioner out.

  “Work how?”

  “The scissors, mister. Maybe a fork? Just make it all even if you can. Get the elflocks out? It’s kind of gross. I’ll get out of the tub first. You don’t want to bathe in my hair.”

  “Elflocks?”

  “That’s what my mother called ’em. Like, knots. The elves make ’em while you sleep.”

  While she climbed out of the tub and got in the robe, Eric retrieved a fork and the pair of scissors he’d noticed in one of the drawers, old-fashioned black-handled things with overly long blades, slightly rusty. She sat in her chair by the stove and awkwardly he combed a little with the fork, used the scissors as a pick, decoded some of the easier tangles, got into it: elflocks, all right. Danielle was quiet, let him work, and so he made another pass, tugged at knots that weren’t going to relax, the work of trolls. And she made no protest when he began to cut, an effort at a straight line or two, nothing fancy. When he was done—he worked fast, like a sailor trimming rope—she felt it all carefully.

  “Mm,” she said.

  “Back in the tub,” he told her, turning away pointedly.

  And she complied, sank quickly under the water. When he looked again her knees loomed; she sank farther and her thighs rose, more downy than hairy, not like the shins, palest skin, not a blemish, not a mole. Her knees were scarred in the usual manner of the hoyden, which he was beginning to see was her history. She bobbed up again, ran her hands across her hair luxuriously, said, “Were you desperate to get married?”

  He shrugged.

  “I mean before you and Alison met? Was it all you thought about?”

  “Hardly. What I thought about was law. About saving the world, to be honest. Delusions of grandeur.”

  “I had delusions of, like, worthless. Ness. I had no interest in marriage at all. Though I didn’t not love Jim. He pushed and pushed. And look what he did to me! Total neglect. Sound familiar? At least you’re a lawyer. I mean really a lawyer. And no doubt making money cock over cunt.”

  Eric flinched, thought it might be good to change the general tenor of the conversation: “Well, actually, there’s a bit of a problem in that regard. I do far too much advocacy and pro bono stuff, and then, when I do work for money, I don’t get paid half the time.”

  Her demeanor flipped once again. She said, “Counselor, that’s fucked!”

  He applied calmness purposefully. It starts with a breath. “Yes,” he said. “Probably people owe me fifty grand or more. I mean, perfectly well-to-do people. You have to write it off after a while.”

  She just grew more aggressive: “No, you have to get some fucking balls. Eric. Do you need me to make some phone calls for you? Dooryard visits? And by the way, if people owe you money, you shouldn’t be buying such expensive fucking cheese!”

  She dunked herself again, came up patting at her hair, eyes tight closed.

  Her little breasts, honestly. Eric felt himself a starving man, sudden insight. Alison had starved him, and purposefully, all while telling him that he wasn’t hungry. Quickly he turned, this time all the way around, turned his chair, put his back emphatically to Danielle.

  She said, “Would you ever date me?”

  His answer came fast, too sharp: “I’d need a revival tent and a van.”

  “Probably true. But in a perfect world? Someone like me? Not a chance. Is what I’m saying.”

  “What do you mean, dooryard visits?”

  “Well. It’s like the Maine Mafia. You get a visit. They don’t come in your house. You stand outside. You might not go back in. Ask Jimmy’s dad.”

  An image came to mind, a man in a tank T-shirt, beer in one fat fist, Bible in the other. Eric said, “I would say yes—yes, of course I would date you. I would say yes very much, in my understanding of the word, if you weren’t married and we could go out on a proper date. But only because your math is so good.”

  “Jim and me, that’s over,” she said. “So ax me on a date.”

  “If that were true, which it isn’t, Jimmy and you, I would. And if I could be sure I wasn’t taking advantage of you. Yes, surely. I would ask you for a date. And what would be your reply? In this perfect world we’re talking about, of course.”

  Silence, some expressive sloshing. “You think you’re so fucking superior.”

  Uh-oh. “No. I’m far from superior. Not to you, not to anyone.” Not to Jimmy, surely. Jimmy the Army Ranger?

  “And your accent changes when you’re doing it. ‘Surely’ this, and ‘what would be your reply’ that?” Her anger bubbled like one of the pots on the stove; steam rose in her voice. “You couldn’t say that—about taking advantage?—if you didn’t think you were superior, very superior. Because you’re saying there’s a power relationship that you don’t want to exploit, which is the same as saying you are superior. And that makes you a dick.”

  “No, not superior at all.”

  “Vulnerable! What about you? I think you’re afraid I’m going to take advantage of you.”

  “All I meant by that was that you’re not yourself.”

  “And all this high talk, but the only reason you’re not slobbering over me is that you think Jim will kick your ass. And you’re right, he will.” A big splash, and bathwater splashed in a fountain over his shoulder.

  Eric said, “I’m not afraid of Jim.”

  “Everyone’s afraid of Jim.”

  He turned so he could see her, said, “Jim and I will be friends.”

  “I’ve had a tough time. Eric. And you, you turn your back on me.” She had a tiny mole on her shoulder blade, otherwise unblemished skin, brightly pink from the bath.

  He said, “A tough time, I know. And I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

  A splash, and she was underwater again. For a long time. Sh
e came up gasping like a pearl diver, turned very naked to see him. Breathless, she said, “But I really, really feel like it.”

  Big flinch, he couldn’t help it, knew she saw it, flushed, hit rewind, even as she held his eye, said, “What would we do on this date? I mean, what do you like to do on a date? A movie? I love a movie, good or bad, and then to talk about it after.”

  “I’d wear a skirt. I have a skirt. I had one, I mean. I had a few, actually. One was like this fucking short. I’ll get a cute one. We’d have to be awfully quiet, mister.”

  “I always thought a hike was a good date.”

  “Always, like you went on more than two.”

  He turned away emphatically. “I went on plenty.”

  “I climbed Katahdin once. Jim is big on hiking. It was fucking brutal, more like a forced march. I did it in sandals. He sent me flowers you know, just last week. Flowers dot com and a guy drives down here all the way from Afghanistan.”

  “I would have thought you’d hate cut flowers.”

  “Eric. Come on. For a woman they’re about equal to a blow job for a man.”

  Flinch.

  Splish-splash. Danielle’s breathing had calmed. She sighed. “Mm,” she said. Then, “Do you know what I’m doing?”

  “In fact, my first date was a hike. My dad dropped Callie DeMartino and me and a couple of other kids—her friends—at the Ribbon Rock trailhead down by Acadia.”

  Danielle moaned, but it was parody. She said, “No, really, do you know what I’m doing?”

  “Tormenting me, that’s what you’re doing.”

  “Dirty mind.”

  “We brought a picnic. Just a nice baguette and a tomato, hunk of good cheese.”

  “You and your cheese.”

  “Ate on a rock high over the ocean, gorgeous.”

  “I have your knife. You keep it so sharp. If you don’t turn and see me I’m going to cut my wrists. First one, then the other, and not across but lengthwise, between the tendons. I’ve done it before.”

  “I didn’t see any scars.”

  “And of course you looked.”

  “Your wrists are very pretty.”

  “You’d better stop me.”

  “That’s enough.”

  The water sloshed. “You better.” Her voice was breathy, then breathier. “You really, really better. Mmm.”

  “You don’t fool me.”

  “God. Mmm. It hurts. That’s a clean, yo that’s a, that’s a, shit, God, that’s a clean. That’s a clean cut.” She groaned expressively.

  “Very funny,” he said, suddenly discomfited.

  She must have seen him stiffen, breathed, breathed again, once more, not quite sighs, not quite moans, the real sound of pain.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  “Now the other one,” she said with a choked sob.

  He almost turned.

  She must have seen this, laid it on too thick: “Ouch. Ouch, fuck. Okay. Okay, mister, good-bye.” The water sloshed.

  The wind took over. The wind was everything, a roar all around, sucking at the stove, pulling air through the stove; it burned brighter, puffs of fragrant smoke, a whistling. Eric didn’t look back, and he didn’t look back. The kettle on the stove rattled once. He thought of his wrecked shoes. He thought of the veterinarian, a chain of causation starting yesterday morning with the tense weather reports. He wouldn’t look. That kindly bagger at Hannaford’s. The bitch of a checker. Not a sound from behind, not a telltale ripple, nothing. Five minutes, ten, plenty of time for a person so skinny to bleed out.

  Finally a splash. “You are fucking useless,” Danielle said.

  He slumped, real relief, as he was unhappy to note. He said, “You had me for a minute.”

  “No, you had me. Eric. You had me and do you know what you said? You said no. You started talking about hiking.”

  “If you still mean it in a couple of months and if Jim and you have actually split—no way—and if Alison and I have split, unlikely, I’ll say yes. Of course, yes. Anyone would date you, of course I would, and honored. In a perfect world. I would date a woman just like you, you yourself in fact.”

  “You’d want me to go back to school.”

  “That would be up to you.”

  “Maybe I could work for you.”

  “I could use the help, honestly.”

  Silence. Then, “Your turn.”

  “I’ll bet you’d really enjoy being back in classes. How many credits do you need?”

  “Like we’re ever going to date. And like I’m ever going to go back to school. And like you’d ever let me work for you. Eric. Who can’t even get clients to pay. Yo. I’m getting out of the tub. Your chance to see my fucking pretty wrists.” The water sloshed. “Okay,” she said after a minute. “I’m decent.”

  He turned as she was leaning, not decent at all, turned as she was reaching for the huge robe, the cabin’s huge robe, a certain skinny elegance about her. He closed his eyes, pinched them closed, turned. But he’d seen plenty. The backs of her thighs had a distinct pattern of hair growth, a kind of staircase curve, symmetrical one leg to the next, not unattractive, fascinating in an animal way: on a horse this would be the color pattern, he thought—palomino, paint, piebald, skewbald, odd-colored, roan—thinking horseflesh so as not to think anything else. When he opened his eyes again Danielle was at the stove and covered.

  “Water’s all boiling for you,” she said happily, and poured the big potful into the tub, dipped a new fill as he had done, put it back on the stove, poured the three little pots in, dipped again and back to the stove. “I smell so good,” she said. And then, peering, “It doesn’t look too dirty, sorry. Really you should’ve gone first.”

  She wasn’t going anywhere so he just stood as if casually and pulled his T-shirt over his head, undid his belt, pulled his pants off, one hand on the chair to steady himself, hopped a little getting his socks off—that floor was deeply cold.

  “Those boxers,” she said, turning just as he pulled them off. He still had half a hard-on from all this overload, the letters, the scent of Breck, her pretty pink butt. She turned away quickly, only talked faster. “Jim wears these boxer briefs—you should get some. Sexy. You have a great body. Eric. Mr. Long and Lean. You should show it off more—everything you wear is so fucking baggy. As if I know what you wear. But I can guess: brown suits and pressed shirts. From that store in the mall down in Portland. What’s it?”

  “I wear casual to work,” he said, mortified; she was right on the money: Brooks Brothers. “Maybe dress pants to court.” L.L. Bean for pants, but that was a name he’d better not say.

  “Just that you say ‘casual,’ and ‘dress.’ ”

  “You know, like jeans and stuff, versus suit and tie.”

  “Duh. And you say ‘versus.’ How did you and Alison meet? L.L. Bean adventure outing? Kayaking to the Isle of Conformity?”

  He stepped into the not-too-cloudy water, hemlock and pine needles floating, found it hot, one leg then the next, very hot, nice though, waited a moment, too long for Danielle, who turned again to see him: “Oops,” she said, but frankly assessing him.

  The wind outside still howled. Amazing that violence like that could slip into the background of even such charged talk. Eric sat more quickly than he’d intended, leaned back against the slipper tub. He said, “We met on a blind date. My roommate at law school set us up.”

  “Before, you said you met at moot court in high school.”

  Busted. “We were acquainted, yes.” When had he told her that? “But my friend didn’t know it.” And why on earth was he lying now? “And, um, we didn’t realize it right away.” Why was he still? Danielle’s interest had surprised him, that’s why. And something about the history between him and Alison seemed private.

  “I’m not buying it, Counselor.”

  “Well, I’m not selling.”

  “You found her on that hike.”

  When had they talked about the hike?

  “And t
hen you met up in Boston.”

  “Okay. True enough.”

  “What happened at the moot court, through? That’s what I want to know.”

  “Nothing. We were friendly.”

  “No, not nothing. You talked and talked. And realized you had soooo much in common. Even though you were rilly, rilly different. Like, I don’t know, a dog and a cat. And after a week of this, you avoided each other rather than hook up, though it could have gone either way. Because you were a gentleman even then. And because she didn’t want to go there. But then years later, you meet accidentially on a hike and it’s like old friends, but still you don’t kiss her.”

  “I went to see her in Boston.”

  “And you fucked in a parking garage.”

  “I don’t remember telling you all this.”

  “Red wine.”

  “And then, just so you know, we kept going at her apartment.”

  “How’s the water?”

  “You know exactly how the water is. It’s great.”

  “Hot and dirty?”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s really nice. And Alison hates dogs and cats equally.”

  “Where’s your dog?”

  “How do you know I have a dog?”

  “You said he went to the vet up there.”

  That miserable vet. “He’s at Alison’s.”

  “Alison who hates him?”

  “No, she loves him, too.”

  “But demanded him because she wants all the chips?”

  “I could get used to this.”

  “I’ll shave while my skin is soft.”

  “We made out on the hike. Within an hour of seeing each other. Just so you know.”