Separate Flights by Andre Dubus Page B

and drank again, head back for a long swallow, then she lit a cigarette from the one she was smoking.
    â€˜It’s what,’ I said.
    â€˜Promises.’
    â€˜You promised to see him again?’
    â€˜I didn’t say anything. Opening my legs is a promise.’
    â€˜But he must have said something.’
    â€˜I wish you could hear your voice right now, the way it was just then, I wish I had it taped and I’d play it for you till you went to a shrink to find out why your voice just now was so Goddamn oily. You like this. You like it. Well hear: it took us a long time to get to the cemetery because we kept stopping to kiss and when we did walk it was slow because we had our arms around each other and his hand was on my tit all the time and when we got to the angel we didn’t look at her, not once, we undressed and got down on the ground and we fucked, Jack, we fucked like mad, and I was so hot I came before he did; the second time I was on top and it was long and slow and I told him I loved him and you, you poor man, you sick cuckold, look at your face—Jesus Christ, what am I married to?’
    â€˜Will you stop?’
    â€˜Why should I? You ought to be knocking my teeth out now. But not you. You want to watch us. Is that it? Is that what you want, Jack?’
    I sat up and was swinging at her but stopped even before she saw it coming, and my hand opened and I pointed at her eyes, the finger close, so close, and I wanted to gouge with it, to hit, to strangle, the finger quivering now as I tried not to shout beneath the children’s rooms, my voice hoarse and constricted in my throat: ‘Terry, you fuck who you want and when you want and where you want but do not do not give me any of your half-ass insights into the soul of a man you’ve never understood.’
    Then she was laughing, a true laugh at first or at least a smile, but she lay with her head back on the pillow, throat arched, her shoulders and breasts shaking, and prolonged it, forced it cracking into the air, withering my tense arm, and I got out of bed so I would not even touch the sheet she lay on.
    â€˜Oh God: half-ass insights into the—what? The soul of a man I’ve never understood? Oh my. You poor baby, and it’s so simple. You think you’re a swinger, free love, I can fuck whoever I want, oh my how you talk and talk and talk and it all comes down to that one little flaw you won’t admit: you’re a pervert, Jack. You need help. And I’m sorry, I really am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I made love with Hank tonight and he wants to see me tomorrow—or this afternoon really—and when I finish this beer I’m going to sleep because the kids’ll be up soon and you’re not known for getting them breakfast—’
    â€˜I’ll do it. Forget it, I’ll do it.’
    â€˜Fine. Do that. That’s one thing you can do. You can’t help me with my other problem any more than I can help you with yours. See, I’m a big girl now and I knew what I was doing tonight and I don’t know if I can very well say tomorrow—today—well gee Hank that was last night but this is now and gee I just don’t want to anymore. I mean even you with all your progressive and liberal ideas will have to admit that even adultery has its morality, that one can cop out on that too. So I have things to figure out.’
    â€˜Yes.’ I started leaving the room. ‘Do what you can.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s good.’ I stopped at the door but didn’t look back. ‘That’s what all my good existential friends say whenever I want advice: Just do what you can. Well, I will, Jack, I will.’
    I went to the kitchen and drank an ale and when Terry was asleep I went to bed.
    Next morning I woke first, alert and excited, though I had slept only four hours. Everything was quiet except birds. I got up and dressed, watching Terry asleep on her