ONE

 

 

Steve Irwin reluctantly awoke from a restless sleep and looked about his unkempt room. The wall-mirror made him look dissolute. He had not lived as slovenly since bachelor days. He would be happy to have his wife home again. He sat propped against the headboard and looked out the window to see a brightly painted tugboat pushing a string of overloaded barges, cascades of tumbling waves and pounding diesels fading as they moved downriver to New York, forty miles away.

 

Glancing at the sky he saw high cirrus foretelling an approaching front, and judging by scattered layers of stratus clouds, today would be bright and clear. A good day for her homecoming. A good day to make a fresh beginning. A good day to start a marriage anew. The glare of the sun on the water created a ribbon of light flowing between the highlands where the fog horn of a brick lighthouse sounded its mournful tones long after the mist had burned away. Across the river the hills flowed together each hollow and curve delineated by the soft morning light. Watching scattered wisps of fog settle in the valley he could see windows on the far shore reflecting the sun as daylight
erased shadows on the granite cliffs.

 

He had seen sunrise and observed the weather in a daily ritual originating so far back in his past he could not remember when he first began watching each new day reveal itself to his wondering childlike gaze. Dawn never failed to evoke feelings of awe and expectation. It pleased him to watch the sun illuminate the Palisades across the river before leaving his bed and stepping into the shower. A pleasant beginning. Watching the sun rise and then the feeling of hot water spreading down shoulders and back, thawing and stretching muscles, luxuriating in the penetrating heat. Yes, this was a good time, if not the best time of day, and, as he turned off the water and dried himself, he could feel
his flesh come alive and he paused remembering that morning long ago when he awoke and for the first time his wife was beside him, a woman of such beauty he trembled as he watched her sleep, a trusting child, head resting on one arm, her tanned body sprawled under the sheets. It was all promise then. Expectation. Love beyond his wildest imaginings now within his grasp if somehow he would reach out and find the courage to commit himself. He smiled and hung the towel on the rack to dry. Who could predict the future of an adoring smile?

 

He dressed quickly, donning a sweater before walking to the garage. He had a habit of leaning
forward, bursting with animal energy as he wa ked, the bounce and swing of his body creating an
appearance of power and compactness that made him seem shorter than his true height. Hunching over the typewriter had rounded his shoulders, thickening the sinews of his neck and when he stepped from his desk at the end of the day stretching his aching muscles, he looked upon his work as an ordeal. To endure and perhaps achieve something out of no other materials but himself was no small ambition, and he had learned that writing was an exhausting profession that consumed all that he had ever felt, thought, or seen in a lifetime dredging-up from his mind and spirit, his daily bread.
He drove slowly, following the post road along the river, knowing he had traveled this route before,
reminded that this would be one more day of high expectations and renewed hopes. He had believed
many things into existence. His career had no genesis other than his belief that he could do what he had been doing these many years, and this marriage was an expression of his faith that they could make something of their lives, and now that he no longer believed they were making anything of value he was possessed by a feeling of futility. This was not the first time he drove his wife home from this and other Sanitariums. And he knew it would not be the last. They lived a recurring cycle of in-and-out with only the names and faces of doctors changing whenever his wife willed one more alteration in behavior or location. Yes, it had taken him too many years to recognize the hatred masquerading in the diaphanous gowns of love.
He shifted gears climbing the high bluff overlooking the river, driving towards the large victorian mansion jutting against the sky, its faded white paint and overgrown grounds rundown as if all
magic had fled from this mountain leaving only echoes of past glories and careers, autographed and framed under glass, gathering dust and curious glances in the hallway where the walls displayed photographs of the “celebrities” who had returned to the Limelight temporarily dried-out or tranquilized for their next encounter with reality. He turned into the parking lot, switched-off the
engine and glanced at his watch. He was early. He looked into the rear-view mirror and smoothed his
hair, peering at a face that had grown thinner and more lined. His habitually questioning gaze, his
way of intensely concentrating on people aroused doubt among those unaccustomed to looking at the
world with genuine interest. He knew his interest in people made it seem he was asking something from them. Was it love? Or was it just knowledge that was expensive in time, money, and heartbreak? Now that he knew, more than he cared to know, about his wife, he realized how little he understood. In seeking the answer to her mystery he had missed what was before his eyes all the time.

 

They had been happy, their lives illuminated by a deep abiding love. Each day brought excitement
and an unfolding passion bringing them together in sudden explosions of desire that convulsed them like reverberating shock waves. Their happiness was a broad, sweeping river that held them in its irresistible power. They told themselves, again and again, how fortunate they were to have met and fallen in love and to have had that love grow. Yes, they were committed, abandoning themselves to deep, true, overwhelming feelings. They were considerate, they were tender, they did what they could for each other and they delighted in a touch, a glance, a brief moment of silence when something deep within the all the sorst the grim, unattractive receptionist who jabbed her finger under the desk, pressing the buzzer that unlocked the door leading to the narrow corridor where softly playing music accompanied the hum ofoverworked air conditioners. The Old Man opened his office door and gestured towards a chair as he sat behind his desk. Steve had explained their happiness, knowing
it seemed unreal, a fantasy. When speaking of the good years his words sounded hollow, and after many retellings he abandoned all effort to describe emotions that had long since atrophied. Today, there was nothing more for him to say. “Your wife,” the Old Man spoke slowly, leaning
back in his chair, “your wife is anxious to return home.” He opened a thick folder and turned the
pages, “she has been eating and sleeping well, ta king full advantage of the therapy we offer here.” The
Old Man continued, his voice flowing in a calm, monotonous rhythm as if reciting a memorized
elocution exercise whose subject was reassurance and confidence. Steve felt no compulsion to listen,
the airy tones, and joyous lilt of the Old Man’s words communicated the essence of the message. His wife would now be on her own. She would make her own future. As you know, all available therapies are unable to cope with alcohol. Take her home with our blessing and we’ll hope for the best. The Old
Man’s voice was a musical performance, slow, stately passages of profound depth and meaning.