Free Voices from the Moon by Andre Dubus Page A

did, he said. He was a carpenter at home. At night, and on the weekends. God, you should have seen that house grow.
    Now he turned from the fountain, and with her heart she urged him to straighten and stride with energy, but he did not, and he seemed to fade past the window and out of her view. She stood and went to the refrigerator and got two bottles of beer, opened them, went back through the living room, and reached the door before he did. He smiled at her through the screen, and came in, and she kissed him over the bottles, felt his hold on the beer in her left hand, and released it to him; kissing him and feeling the cold bottle leave her fingers, she was struck by a sadness that was sudden yet so familiar now that she did not even have to call it death anymore. She looked up at him.
    “I’ve been watching you,” she said.
    “And?”
    She smiled.
    “I was trying to figure out why I love you.”
    “And?”
    “I just do. Come hold me, and tell me about your terrible day.”
    “How do you know it was terrible?”
    “I’ve been watching you. Come on.”
    She put her arm about his waist and they went to the couch and sat, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
    “Richie this morning,” he said, above her head.
    “How was he?”
    “He’s tough.”
    “That’s good.”
    “I wish to fuck he didn’t have to be.”
    She nodded and nestled against him.
    “He’ll be all right,” he said.
    “Larry was here.”
    “Was it bad?”
    “He wasn’t. It was.”
    “Jesus. Tonight I see Carol. After dinner.”
    She looked at the moving curtains and the bird-bath and fountain. Then she said: “I’m lucky. Wickedly lucky.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I’m going to enjoy telling my family.”
    “On the phone.”
    “No. I’ll write letters.”
    “You’ll enjoy that?”
    “They never have known me. They might as well keep on, or start trying.”
    “Do you love them?”
    “Sure I do. But I love them better by mail. I need a shower.”
    “I need another beer. At least.”
    He went to the kitchen; in the bedroom she pulled the leotard down over her breasts and hips, and stepped out of it as he came in. He arranged two of her four pillows, then lay on the bed, his shoulders propped up so he could drink.
    “I’ve seen worse,” he said.
    “You’ve probably fucked worse.”
    “I have,” he said, as she walked away from him, the sadness gone as she felt, because he watched her, the grace of her flesh, and its colors from the sun and her bikini. He had showered here last night, so she lowered the nozzle to keep her hair dry, and waited outside the tub till the water was hot. She stepped in and turned her breasts to the spray and closed her eyes, as she always did, not to keep water from them, but because she shut them to nearly all sensuous pleasures: lying in the sun and dancing alone in her living room and masturbating and making love. Only smoking and drinking and eating were better with your eyes open, and sometimes when she first inhaled or sipped or chewed, she closed her eyes then too. She turned her back to the water and soaped herself, and turned again and rinsed, and stayed, contained by the shower curtain and the hot water, until it began to cool. Then she turned the handle and lifted her arms as cold water struck her breasts and stomach, and she circled in it, her arms above her head, till the cold drew from her an exhaled sound, soft yet shrill, like a bird’s. She turned off the water and stepped out, rubbed her cool skin with a thick dark blue towel, then wrapped it around her body, from the tops of her breasts to her thighs, and went to the bedroom.
    He had brought her a beer, set on the table at her side of the bed, and the other two pillows were waiting. She lay beside him, leaned against the pillows, and drank. He lit one of her cigarettes and gave it to her, then slid his leg toward hers so they touched. She said: “Maybe next summer I’ll be pregnant.”
    “It’s better in winter, when