The Motion of Puppets(4)
“Dinner?” he asked, lifting one bushy eyebrow, and she could not tell whether he was really flirting or just exaggerating for comic effect. Funny old lech. “Just a small party. Sarant has already said yes, and a select few others. But it wouldn’t be the same without you.”
In all of her weeks with the circus, Kay had been invisible, or perhaps she had not taken the other performers’ notice into account. Every night Theo had been waiting by the dressing room trailer to walk her home, and she had made her good-byes. But now, she had been granted entrée into the inner circle. She pulled up the straps to her camisole and pretended to look for her shoes. “Yes, sounds fun,” she said to the floor.
He laid a hand against her bare shoulder, the fingerless glove as startling as a snake. “I’m so glad you’ve agreed. Now, let’s not miss another cue.”
The crowd roared for the finale, a grand tumbling and vaulting parade of acrobats spilling down the platform thrust into their space, the lot of them, the fliers, contortionists, dancers, and clowns pouring out, an orchestrated boffo curtain call designed for maximum approval. The small boy, dreamer of the extravaganza, hopped from Reance’s shoulder. Then they clasped hands and bowed; and the company bowed together to a chorus of bravos. The people beyond the footlights clapped till their hands hurt. At the peak of the sound, the lights were cut, and all the performers exited in the echoing darkness. She dipped into her locker and found the clothes she had stashed for a special occasion and quickly changed into a yellow sundress and her favorite shoes, a pair of pale blue heels. After the greasepaint had been wiped away, after the boas and spangles had been packed up for the night, Kay found the others queuing near the entrance gate. “Off to dinner with the cast,” she quickly texted her brand-new husband. “Be home late. Don’t wait up.”
2
Theo woke up alone in the bed. The covers had fallen to the floor sometime in the night, and the sheets were twisted in a damp noose around his feet. For a fleeting moment, he thought Kay might have gotten out of bed early because of his restlessness, but her pillows lay plump and untouched. Or perhaps she came home late, and so as not to disturb him had gone to sleep on the sofa in the living room. His head ached. As he ran his fingertips across his brow, he replayed the night before, the beers and that plate of poutine heavy in his gut. Dreams of Muybridge racing through San Francisco to catch the last ferry, the wagon ride through the winding hills in the dark night to the cabin where his wife had gone to be with her lover. The last thing Theo remembered from his dream was the photographer knocking on the front door, pistol in hand.
“Kay,” he called out, but no answer. He struggled to his feet and stumbled out of the bedroom, repeating her name in the empty rooms. She wasn’t on the sofa. She hadn’t come home last night, or perhaps she had woken early and had gone out for a pair of hot coffees and those pastries he loved from the shop around the corner. With a fat yawn, he absentmindedly shuffled through last night’s work, half his attention focused on the foyer, awaiting the sound of her return, the ding of the elevator, footsteps on the landing, the jangle of keys at the lock. The blank page offered no real distraction for his agitation, so he rose without writing a single word. He wandered from room to room, opening the shades to bring in the light, searching for where he had left his cell phone. A quick call to her would clear up the entire mystery. Chuckling at the memory, he found it at last behind a throw pillow on the sofa. He had been keeping vigil there before falling asleep to an old black-and-white movie and must have abandoned the phone on his half-awake trek to the bedroom. Right, she had sent him a text: Be home late. Don’t wait up. But he had expected her for a while, and only reluctantly crawled into bed around midnight without her. He thumbed to her number.
When his call went straight to voice mail, he hung up without leaving a message and then punched in a series of urgent texts, one after the other as soon as each was delivered:
Where are you?
Did you come home last night?
Call me.
No reply. He cursed the smartphone and all technology for its failure to bring him an instant answer. Either she had forgotten to turn on her phone, or it was powerless somewhere, in need of a charge. Just like the time when they were dating and she stood him up without a word. She could have called and explained, he would have understood. Her secretiveness had nearly ruined everything, and now he felt a mixture of annoyance and anxiety that weighed like a rock in his belly. Nothing to be done but wait, take a shower, make breakfast, keep busy.
Rubbing the beginnings of a beard, Theo thought of Muybridge and his magnificent nineteenth-century gray whiskers. Of course, he had married later in life, and his bride, despite having been once married and divorced already, was much younger. She must have been reminded of that difference in ages every time she saw that snowy beard. Perhaps that’s why she strayed, looking for some vigor and excitement the older man could not provide. The same worries plagued Theo, though he and Kay were only a decade apart, but still. She should be more responsible, should know that he would worry, but he could hear her laughing it off when she came home. You’ll give yourself ulcers, she’d say. You fret too much. I just went out for croissants.
But she had not returned by the time he finished taking a shower and dressing for the day. She had not returned when the coffee had gurgled through the machine, nor after he had finished his cold cereal. He badgered his phone for an update every few minutes, but she could not be reached. Late morning seeped into the apartment in a funk. The kitchen clock ticked like a metronome. Dust in the sunlight swirled like a lazy tempest. Through the open window, he could smell the exhaust of traffic below from cars on the street, boats on the water. A startling horn broke the reverie. The coffee had gone cold and sour. On the table, his books and papers threatened to fly away of their own accord, and his pen looked like a bloodied knife. The whole apartment felt like a crime scene. He could do nothing but wait.