David Dorlé [2]

He couldn't help glancing at her legs. It wasn't just that they were long and slender and perfectly tapered, or that she had swung one over the other and now tapped the air with a sling-back stiletto, or that they were smooth and tanned and flawless, but that they were bare. Like so many young professional women down here, she did not wear stockings and for a man of his age and tradition, he found that slightly crass and sexy as all get-out.

She had dark eyes and olive skin and over-the-shoulder black hair — too long, he felt, for a marriage counselor, although she usually had it in some kind of bun or twist or something that held it up. Today, she was wearing a pencil skirt, navy blue, a white silk blouse, and black-rimmed glasses. He fancied her tossing those glasses on to her desk and in one fluid motion, reaching back and releasing that bounty of hair. But hell, he thought, even if she had, what would I do about it?

"Mr. Raffort? Mr. Raffort, do you agree with what Mrs. Raffort just said?"

"Art," Mrs. Raffort said. "Doctor LaMetti is speaking to you. Arthur!" she jabbed him.

"What?!"

"Mrs. Raffort says your affection for her has waned."

"Aw, Jesus. Do we have to talk about everything?"

"I'm trying to help you understand each other, Mr. Raffort. I'm not asking these questions out of idle curiosity."

"Right. How old are you, anyway?"

"I don't see the relevance of that."

"What difference does it make, Art?"

"I want to know. For the last month, we've been answering every little thing she's asked about us. Can't I ask one question of her?"

"I'm thirty-seven."

"See? I told you. She's not even Mimi's age. I'm not going to sit here and discuss our love life with a total stranger, especially one who's not even as old as our youngest child."

"Mr. Raffort," she said, taking a breath. "Is it true what Mrs. Raffort said about your affections waning?"

"None of your business."

"It is, Doctor. He hardly ever makes love to me anymore, and when he does, he never touches me. Not like he used to at least."

"What are you talking about? Of course I touch you when we're having s-- Aw, geez, can't we just get out of here?"

"Mrs. Raffort, would you like to tell Mr. Raffort what you mean by ‘not touching you like he used to'?"

"No, she wouldn't."

"Well, for one thing, he never touches my left breast."

"My God, Helen."

"Well you don't!"

"Do you have anything you'd like to say to that, Mr. Raffort?"

"Yes. ‘Goodbye.'"

"Please, sir. Sit down. Go ahead, Mrs. Raffort."

"Well, that's it, really. He touches the right one, but never the left one. It's as though he's intentionally neglecting it."

"Oh, for Christsake."

"Ever since I had that lump removed."

"I didn't want to disturb the sutures."

"They were taken out over a year ago, Art."

He glared at his wife, his face reddening.

"I'll be in the car," he said, and against their pleas, he walked out.

The heat rose visibly from the blacktop as he crossed the parking lot, never mind that it was the dead of winter. This was Naples, Florida and if it wanted to be 85 degrees with 90 percent humidity in mid-February, then by God, that's what it would be. He opened the car door to a plume of hot air, reached inside for his cell phone and saw that he had a message. It was the call he had dreaded, or at least it had been before he'd had these few days to try on the possibility. He pressed ‘call-back' with an air of acceptance.

"I'm sorry, Art."

"You're sure."

"Yes. You're free to get a second opinion, but--"

"No, I figured as much. Well, shit."

"We need to get you in for surgery right away. It's just on the edge of the pancreas, so there's a chance--"

"No, I'm not having any surgery. No chemo either."

"But--"

"I've already thought this through. Look, my wife's coming. I'll call you later. Not a word of this to anyone, you understand?" and he flipped the phone shut.

"Well, that was the rudest display of behavior you've ever exhibited," she said as she approached.

"I'm sorry, I just can't-- Why are we doing this anyway? All these years, we've been able to solve our own problems and now you want to share our most intimate moments with some kid who's not even--"

"She's not a kid; she's a woman. And she's trying to help us."

"She's a kid. She says like all the time and sooo. ‘I'm like sooo proud to be like working with you.'"

"She does not. She never talks that way, and even if she did, so what? Every generation has its idioms. God knows ours did."

"I feel as though I'm talking to the grandkids, to Billy. When I disagree, I half expect her to say, ‘So sue me.'"

"Quit being ridiculous. Besides, none of this excuses your rudeness."

"I said, ‘I'm sorry,' OK? Let's just go home."

"I have to pick up my medication."

"All right. I'll browse the liquor store."

"We have enough booze."

"I said, ‘browse.'"

Up north, he knew of only one wine shop where you could spend upward of $400 a bottle, but here in Florida, even Walgreen's carried high-end Bordeaux and Pinot Noir and Cabernet, all of it locked in a little glass case. Before today, he wouldn't have even slowed to look at it.

"I'll take that one," he said to the clerk.

"Yes, Sir!"

"And some of those Macanudos, too, the big fat ones."

"The Churchills."

"Whatever. What else ya got?"

"Well, we have some excellent Port, very rare vintages, all of it superb."

"Good. Give me two bottles of whatever you think and throw in a pint of the worst bourbon you have."

"The worst, Sir?"

"Yeah, to stash in the garage."

"Of course," he winked. "Anything else?"

"That oughta do it. And don't forget the senior discount."

First thing in the door, Helen always headed to the bathroom. This gave him time to hide the wine and cigars. When she came out, he was settled in his La-Z-Boy.

"Are you still reading that book? I thought you were finished with that."

"No, that was the other one."

"I don't know how you can spend so much time reading. All you ever do is sit around the house and read."

"I do not."

"Or watch television."

"You're the one who watches television."

"Well, what am I supposed to do when you're reading all the time? It wouldn't be so bad if you read something decent."

"This is decent."

"I mean literature. James Joyce, Faulkner, something that matters. Not this crap, look at this, these trashy paperbacks, half naked women on the covers."

"They're mysteries. What do you care what I read anyway?"

"I just don't get it. All you do is lay there and read or fool around out in the garage."

"Well, we're retired, Helen. We're supposed to relax, do the things we like to do."

"How come you didn't want to read when you were working?"

"I didn't have time. Now I do, so I'll read. All right?"

She walked into the kitchen to fix them both a sandwich. When she returned, he was laying with his head hanging to the side, dozing.

"Art!"

"Wha--"

"Lunch!"

He struggled out of his chair and walked to the table.

"I was thinking," she said, "I might run over to Target this afternoon."

"Hmm."

"Want to go with me?"

"No."

"You never want to do anything with me anymore."

"That's not true. I've never wanted to go to Target."

"You always wanted to go."

"No, I went with you because you wanted me to. I promise you, in 47 years of marriage, I've never wanted to go to Target. Ever."

"Now what are you doing?"

"I thought I'd finish the crossword puzzle from this morning. What's gotten into you?"

"I just think with all this time on your hands you'd want to do something worthwhile."

"Like what?"

"Well, you could help out around here a little."

"Doing what? You keep the place antiseptically clean. There's nothing to do."

"You could clean the pool."

"It's already clean."

"It's filthy."

"There's three leaves in it. Besides, the pool girl comes tomorrow. She'll clean it then."

"And you'll be right at the windows, won't you, watching her in her short-shorts and tank top, bending over, skimming up the scum."

"What scum?"

"There's scum floating on top. Right there. See it? Scum."

"Well, so what? Neither of us is going to use the pool anyway. Are we?"

"Then why did we have it put in?"

"Because you said, ‘Living in Florida, we have to have a pool.'"

"Twenty-eight thousand dollars. We could have put that money toward our retirement."

"We have plenty of money. Besides the kids like it when they're here."

"But they never come here. Mark and Valerie can't make it this year, and Mimi and Paul are going to see his folks in Scottsdale."

"They're coming in April."

"She said, ‘Maybe.' That means they're not coming."

"Do you know a five letter word for island?"

"Oh," she scoffed. "I'm going to Target. When I get back, will you help me with the plants?"

"You mean the one plant out there?"

"Yes. Will you help me?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Arthur, just say you'll help me, all right?"

In the quiet of the house, he wandered from room to room, recalling a memory here and there, then taking the bottle of wine out of its hiding place and popping the cork. The clerk seemed to know what he was talking about when he said to ‘let it breathe for a couple of hours.' Pancreatic Cancer, he whispered. All those people over the years who had fought against it. How Michael Landon had said his brave Goodbye on Johnny Carson. How Helen's favorite aunt had held her head up and buoyed everyone's spirits with her simple, elegant dignity. How one of his childhood friends suffered through the surgeries and the chemo, even thinking he may have beaten it for a while before finally succumbing. The boomerang of hope and despair was second only to those agonizing treatments, the humiliation, the dry heaves, the dizzy spells, the morphinic fog, not to mention the pillage of one's life savings. Vibrant, optimistic towers of strength were reduced in a matter of months to hollow-eyed, destitutes. He'd have nothing to do with it. He'd rather die a few months early than subject his friends and loved ones to that.

He picked up the phone, called the florist and ordered a dozen long-stem roses, yellow, red, white and pink — three of each. She had always liked things colorful and that went double for flowers. Tomorrow was Valentine's Day, the anniversary of their engagement, which they celebrated nearly as avidly as they did the wedding date itself. He smiled at the thought of the clumsy boy-of-a-man who got down on one knee forty-seven years ago and stuttered out a proposal. By starting the celebration a day early, he was certain to catch her unawares, which made presenting her with flowers and a great wine all the more fun.

He made a second call to their favorite steak house. Was it possible, he wondered, for them to prepare the house special for him to go? "Oh, you don't? Well, this is Art Raffort and it's our anniversary ... Good. Thank you."

He thought he might put it all down in a letter, affirm how much he had loved her all these years and explain as best as he could what sinister thing was happening in that dark corner of his body, but he decided against it. He would tell her face-to-face when the time was right, then together they would tell Mark and Mimi. He was sure he could persuade them to come down if only for a few days. The grandkids would be a different matter. Who would tell them and how, he couldn't fathom. He thought of their little faces and bit down. Then he straightened up and told himself, all of this is a long ways off. Enjoy the day. That would be his focus from here on out, he promised himself.

"I found the cutest towels," Helen announced, coming in the door.

"Good."

"I think they'll go perfect in the guest bath. See?"

"Very nice."

"Whoa! Where did these flowers come from? Roses!"

"They're not for me," he said smiling, "so they must be for you."

She read the card, "‘Happy Anniversary' — but that's not until tomorrow."

"Yes, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? Isn't that what our little Doctor LaMetti says?"

"Oh, you really are a sweet old fart, you know it?" and she kissed him.

"Guess what else? Steaks from Flemings."

"No!"

"Yeah, I'm picking them up at six. And to compliment the meat, look at this. I've got it breathing here on the counter."

"Chateau Moat-tin Rothschild," she said, turning the bottle.

"Moo-tone. It's French."

"Ohhoo. How much?"

"Thirty bucks."

"Thirty dollars for a single bottle of wine? This is not coming out of my grocery budget. What is the matter with you?"

"It's our anniversary and I love you. So sue me."