Burial of the Dead

PLOTS - 9

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Ann Dillon drives back into town and parks under the Hilton. She takes an elevator to the lobby, walks by check-in, presses twelve and waits: Doors open, doors close, doors open. She reads the sign with the arrows, turns to the right, counting down door numbers. Then she stops, knocks on the door and hears a brush of movement. She waits. No time to think. Only time to do this. Her heart beats, one thought about to fly away. The door opens and doubt, hesitation, inhibitions dissolve to a quickening, a heat. She steps into the room and they embrace. Manny Whitman kisses her on the lips and, with arms extended, grabbing air, they close the door for privacy.

The women back step to the bed. They lie on the quilt with patterns from Versailles. Manny with the bad hip and the weak leg rolls once to make room. She takes Ann in her arms and brushes back her brown hair.

“I’ve missed you,” Manny says, and they hold each other in the almost dark. Manny sobs a little, as she always sobs when lying with Ann, as if passion tinged with the sadness of impermanence is something to be mourned.

“Don’t,” Ann says, and Manny buries her face in Ann’s arms, trying to hold her breath, not to stop crying, but to stop time.

They lay there for a long time, soft hands, strong hands, caressing, touching. Then Ann raises one arm and turns her wrist. “We haven’t much time,” she says, and Manny looks into Ann’s eyes, searching for something, seeking a depth born of warmth and the intimate knowledge of one another.

“What is it?” Ann asks.

“I don’t know,” Manny says. “Nothing.”

“You look so worried.”

“No, I’m not worried.”

Ann holds her again and they kiss and then separate again.

“You never told me about Matthew,” Manny says.

“What about him?”

“About the day he showed up at your office.”

“That was weeks ago - when he was looking for Bobby Sullivan.”

“Was he out of control?”

“Not at all,” Ann says. “He was very polite. Seemed to have a little trouble breathing is all. Said he has asthma.”

“He wasn’t drunk or crazy or anything?”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Your memo convinced me he was.”

“I only wrote what you told me.”

“You had Cal sign it.”

“I did.”

“You can make him sign anything.”

“He trusts me,” Ann says, “like a daughter.”

“I figured he would be, though,” Manny says.

“Who’d be? What?”

“I figured Matthew would be out of control,” and she struggles to roll across the bed, drops her feet to the floor and sits upright. Ann watches her from behind, the broad shoulders, her white neck visible with her hair caught up in a tortoise shell clip.

“You know his family had him committed,” Manny says.

“I know,” Ann says.

“He was never stable, not really.”

“Did he find out about us?”

“I don’t think so,” Manny says.

“Growing up, I always thought his family had money,” Ann says. “I thought they’d send him off to some fancy clinic.”