Marlowe wakes Wednesday morning just as she has the previous two days and as she will for two days more: sandwiched between darkness and daybreak, between dreams and reality, between two pillows that she has drawn close around her body. She jerks awake with a sharp breath and moves her hands away from the places where they have roamed, the places where he used to touch her. Every night she falls asleep in her old hollow on the right side of the bed, and every morning she wakes up in the middle, clutching pillows and squeezing her thighs together.
She untangles herself from the sheets and walks sluggishly to the shower. While she waits for the water to heat up, she stretches long and needfully, popping her joints. But they still ache. And just as it has the previous two mornings, even the steaming hot water fails to wash away the itch just under her skin, just under the radar of her conscious mind. She has been imprinted. Need is a new reflex, an instinct.
But it's still unconscious. As her brain slowly cranks into gear, she works out plans for her trip to Atlanta on Friday. She's driving down to stay until after the Fourth of July party. Then she'll return to D.C. and wait out the long weeks until fall semester begins. Marlowe turns in the shower, rinsing her hair, contemplating things to do with that fallow time. There's a summer reading program at the library; she can tutor. Caris invited her on a trip to Miami, a last hurrah before summer is over. They take two trips together every year, one in summer and one in winter. Marlowe forgot this year because she had to bury her parents and sister and give away her brother. Time stumbled for a moment, out of respect, but now it's moving on. Everything changes.
Marlowe emerges form her bedroom and heads toward the kitchen in her favorite Hawks jersey, wiping the back of her neck with a hand towel. Her curls are heavy with water and hanging down to her shoulders, fragrant and fresh. Her head is clear now, focused, gathered together. Last week with Lucas was like being on the back of a motorcycle, moving too fast through unfamiliar terrain, flying by the seat of her panties. This is better, she thinks as she fills her mug with fresh coffee. This is something she understands. Last night's dreams are at a distance and Lucas is at a distance. Now she can approach him slowly, carefully. Now she can think before she acts. She picks up the phone from the wall mount and dials the number on her message board just as she has the previous two mornings.
"Klein."
"Lucas?"
"Hello."
"Hey. It's Marlowe."
Lucas circles around Gail's desk. He shuts his door against the idle chat and flirtation passing between his secretary and one of his trainees. "I know," he says in the silence of his office. "How are you?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Fine," Lucas replies, even though he is not. He takes a quiet slow breath to calm all of the nerves that started firing at the sound of her voice.
"How's work?"
His lips tighten. These little calls are torture. But he checked his watch today around seven o'clock and came up with a reason to go to his office so that he could be alone with her voice this time. "Fine."
"I'm fine, too. I'm going to Atlanta on Friday."
"I know."
"Right. I said that." Monday she said that she was sorry for being stupid, just like she did after she left him in the phone booth. Tuesday she said she was sorry for hurting his feelings. "You're still coming for the Fourth, right?"
"Yes."
Marlowe exhales a breath that she didn't realize she was holding in. "Good. Great." She doesn't want to burn the bridge; she just doesn't think she can cross it. It looks rickety; there are planks missing. "Roderick would have my head if you didn't show up."
"Why? He doesn't know about us," Lucas says coolly.
Marlowe frowns. He does this every time, calling her out of her comfort zone with a word like 'us' or 'we'. He doesn't yell or snap; he doesn't refuse her calls. And yet he still manages to piss her off. "You can't tell him, okay? Not until I figure out what's going on."
"What is going on, Marlowe?" Lucas asks somberly, pacing, measuring the length of the room with his heavy leather boots.
"Nothing. I just, uh . . ." she trails off. She picked up the phone today because she picked it up yesterday. It's a reflex. She knows that there isn't anything to say except 'yes' or 'no'.
Lucas knows that too. That's why he takes her calls; that's what he's waiting to hear. "Made any decisions lately?" he asks abruptly.
"I was thinking maybe we could have dinner tomorrow night and talk. You're coming for the Fourth and everyone's going to be there, so . . . I think we should talk about what we're going to do." Think before you act.
"Not invitations; decisions." He can't do anything until she gives him an answer, something to prepare for or respond to. His whole life is waiting on her: his job, his housing, his future, everything. He needs an answer now.
"Lucas, I can't decide overnight to move in with you. I can't. What's the rush anyway?"
"You know that story I told you about transferring to Fort Myer? I already put in the transfer. Last week," he adds, turning and perching on the edge of his desk.
"What?" Marlowe cries.
"Last week," he repeats. He glances at his watch; he has less than five minutes before he has to go. "I need to know what you want as soon as possible."
"So, what - it's your way or the highway? Why don't you get your own apartment and we can date like normal people? I mean, that's what you usually do. You get to know each other."
Lucas sighs. "I'm not trying to twist your arm, Marlowe. But there's no way I'm going to spend a night in the same city as you and not in the same bed. I can't," he says emphatically, throwing the phrase back at her. "I'm in the Army; I'll be gone a lot. I don't want to be overseas, missing you, and then come back and still be missing you. And," he begins, cutting off her protest, "that's not what this is about. You can't make a decision about me," he says flatly. "Otherwise moving in wouldn't be an issue. I made love to you. I know."
Marlowe presses the phone to her chest and grits her teeth. "Err," she screeches angrily, smacking her forehead with her palm. "I can't stand you," she snaps darkly. "Err - you make me so sick!"
"Right. I have to go," Lucas replies calmly, straightening. "Call back tomorrow."
"Whatever." She has lost her composure. Somehow or another, Lucas always steals it away. "I'll call if I feel like it."
"Goodbye, Marlowe."
"Bye," she retorts, hanging up the phone.
There's nothing I can do, Lucas reflects grimly as he flips his phone closed. He can't break her, even though he tried, even though he alternately swaddled her in tenderness and consumed her with sensuality greedier than death. He has given her everything he has, even his desperation, a thing which he now reels in and carefully conceals as he strides out of his office. He will have to go hungry again today. He will have to wait, for a phone call if nothing else. He has to take the calls because distance means jeopardy, the passage of time means jeopardy. When something goes missing, the longer you wait, the less likely you are to find it.
Marlowe has gone missing. The complacent, thoughtful Marlowe Ross has been replaced by an anxious woman with a cigarette often in hand. "I made love to you. I know." She turns that statement over and over in her mind Wednesday and Thursday night; she wakes up with it Friday morning, tangled in her sheets, clutching pillows. She used to be content living alone, but Lucas has changed everything; contentment has moved irrevocably out of reach. There are only two choices now: with Lucas or without.
At five thirty a.m., she yanks open the zipper on her suitcase, grabs her cosmetics bag, and stomps toward the bathroom. She stops suddenly and rushes to the kitchen to answer the ringing phone. "Hello?"
"Hiya," Caris mumbles, yawning. "Unlock the door. I'm coming over."
"Caris, go back to sleep. It's five a.m."
"Unlock the door. I'm already awake." Caris stumbles into Marlowe's apartment five minutes later in a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a tank top. Yawning hugely and shaking her hair out, she lumbers to Marlowe's bedroom and falls face down on the bed.
Marlowe comes to the bathroom door and snickers. "Girl, what are you doing over here?"
"I came to repeat myself," Caris mumbles against the sheets. "Get a flight. It's too far to drive by yourself."
"Then let me repeat myself: I don't want to be stuck in Atlanta for over a week without wheels. It's not fun, trust me."
"Okay." Caris sighs slowly, sleepily. "I'm too tired to argue."
Marlowe strides out of the bathroom with her cosmetics bag. "Go to sleep, Caris."
"Okay." Suddenly, Caris raises one arm in the air like a flag pole. "But I also want to repeat that I'm very disappointed in you."
"I heard you the first time," Marlowe replies, stuffing her bag into the suitcase. "Oh; conditioner."
"You heard me but you didn't listen." Caris turns and nestles her head into Marlowe's pillow. She watches her friend round the bed with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "You're smoking."
"Sure am."
"What's the matter?" Caris asks, staring. "Did you call yesterday?"
"Sure didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because it's stupid, Caris. It makes me feel stupid. I don't know what to say anymore."
"How about, 'I love you and we can work something out'?"
"He doesn't work things out. I think I told you that," Marlowe snipes, tugging the zips on her bag.
"You don't either. You're not even trying. Why?"
Marlowe heaves a deep sigh of irritation. "You don't understand, Caris."
Caris stuffs her face into Marlowe's pillow, growling. "Oh my God, I'm so tired of hearing that. I'm so tired of it! 'He doesn't understand, Caris. You don't understand." Caris grabs the pillow and chucks it at Marlowe's head. "How can I understand your reasons when I don't even know what they are?"
Marlowe stops, frowning slightly. She realizes suddenly that what is second nature to her is not obvious to her friend. Caris doesn't bear this burden; she doesn't draw anxious breaths within the confines of the terribly too small. Marlowe takes a pull on her cigarette and then sets it down on the ashtray on her night table. "Alright, Caris, here it is - I go to Atlanta, put up with Roderick and Tamara for a week," she says, grimacing slightly, "and then this party. Here's what's going to happen: fifty different people are going to tell me how sorry they are about my folks because they haven't seen me since the funeral. Then those same fifty people are going to tell me how sorry I am all night long, how skinny I am, how single I am, and where have I been, and I should have married Nate, and what's wrong with me, and look what I did because he ended up with that white girl. Then," Marlowe exclaims, raising one finger, "let's say Lucas messes around and hits on me or something. It's okay, right? He cares about me. It doesn't matter," Marlowe snaps with cold sarcasm. "They're gonna tear my ass up. I'm the one who gets beat down. But it's no big deal, right? It doesn't matter."
"It can't be that bad, Marlowe."
"It is that bad! It is," Marlowe insists. "You think I moved to D.C. because a couple of people were picking at me? You do it all the time; Tamara too. This is different." You're failing, Marlowe Ross - that's what they say. "I can't take anymore, Caris. I really can't."
"So you're going to give up Lucas for these people," Caris retorts primly.
"No! I don't know!" Marlowe shouts, huffing and pinching her lips together. Even though she has fallen for him, she's afraid of falling on her face. She isn't in denial about her feelings; she doesn't trust those feelings to shore up the strength she will need to get through this. Feelings only seem to make her weak, scattered, stupid. She doesn't trust Lucas to help her through a fight that doesn't belong to him, a fight that he doesn't acknowledge. That is the legacy of the race war: mistrust, misunderstanding. If she chooses Lucas, she will have to ride into the fray for him; bullets will fly and she will get hurt, badly. She can't pretend that it's not going to happen; she can't act like it doesn't matter. "No," Marlowe repeats. "I'm not. I just . . . Damn it."
"Well I still think you should call. You're making a mistake."
"Is that what you came over here to say, Caris?" Marlowe huffs. "Because I heard you the first time."
Caris blinks, taken aback. "No, groucho. I came over here to say goodbye because I love you and I'm going to miss you," Caris replies icily.
Marlowe closes her eyes, sighing. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a bitch, honey, for real." She scrubs her hand over her face. "I'm just so damn stressed here lately." Cluttered thoughts, confused heart - the new Marlowe Ross. She grunts when a pillow hits her square in the stomach.
"Sex is the best medicine for stress," Caris replies pithily. "Call Dr. Klein."
Marlowe picks up her pillows and launches them at Caris one at a time. "Girl, get your big butt out of my bed."
"Sorry," Caris replies breezily, tucking a pillow under her head. "I'm sleepy. I'm staying."
