A Hunter's Fire VI
He remembered the look on Nicholas’ face when he had handed the sheet music from the piano back to James. It was a look that understood. He knew what it was like to be the suffering artist - ever forced to create, never being able to just let an aching thought lie, instead having to express everything through song and sound.
Aileen had understood too. He remembered now her tiny fist twisting in the fabric of his pants leg as she begged for him to stop playing. The tall black instrument at her side was too much for her to explain, but she knew what it was he was trying to say through his music. She knew that the hurts he couldn’t discuss were still in the air. Still haunting them both.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said at last. Gabrielle glanced at him, her blue-green eyes dull. “I don’t know how to make it stop anymore. You’re right. We can’t just stop; we have to go on. There are still things to do.”
“No vacations,” she said quietly and James nodded his agreement.
“As much as I want to take you home,” he began, but she stopped him, her hand gentle on his forearm. Her skin was white, papery dry. California had done her no favors.
“There’s no need to talk about how sorry we are,” she said. She slowly got to her feet, using his shoulder to brace herself. James felt the weight like a fairy pressing down against him. It was lighter than the humid air filling the dead hotel room. “Now that you’re here, we can go on. Fisher is back, you know.”
“I know.”
She nodded and began to take off the robe with mechanical precision, folding it and putting it away on one of the shelves above the little black and white television on the dresser opposite the bed. She pulled out a drawer and in it James saw a dozen of her stage gowns. Those should be hanging up, he thought, ever aware of stage presence, ever calculating what it was people would see when they looked at his wife. He hated himself for it, but he could not help the thoughts as they came anyway, unbidden. Gabrielle lifted a pale dress of cotton and silk ribbons out of the drawer and laid it on the bed.
“Is this one all right?” she asked. She looked at him with that same dull slightly vacuous stare. James returned it, frowning.
“It’s fine, Gabrielle,” he said. “You can wear whatever you want.” Was it so obvious, the thoughts in his head? Did she really feel the need to ask him these things before she did them? He watched her as she dressed, pulling the dress over her head. Finding a pair of panties in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He felt voyeuristic and chauvinistic all at once and turned away suddenly to stare at the closed door of the room instead. Gabrielle finished dressing and picked up her violin.
“Here,” she said, and came around his side to hand him the instrument. It had lost its polished sheen, that prized high gloss that Gabrielle kept it in when she was living and loving her music. James took it from her.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
Aileen had understood too. He remembered now her tiny fist twisting in the fabric of his pants leg as she begged for him to stop playing. The tall black instrument at her side was too much for her to explain, but she knew what it was he was trying to say through his music. She knew that the hurts he couldn’t discuss were still in the air. Still haunting them both.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said at last. Gabrielle glanced at him, her blue-green eyes dull. “I don’t know how to make it stop anymore. You’re right. We can’t just stop; we have to go on. There are still things to do.”
“No vacations,” she said quietly and James nodded his agreement.
“As much as I want to take you home,” he began, but she stopped him, her hand gentle on his forearm. Her skin was white, papery dry. California had done her no favors.
“There’s no need to talk about how sorry we are,” she said. She slowly got to her feet, using his shoulder to brace herself. James felt the weight like a fairy pressing down against him. It was lighter than the humid air filling the dead hotel room. “Now that you’re here, we can go on. Fisher is back, you know.”
“I know.”
She nodded and began to take off the robe with mechanical precision, folding it and putting it away on one of the shelves above the little black and white television on the dresser opposite the bed. She pulled out a drawer and in it James saw a dozen of her stage gowns. Those should be hanging up, he thought, ever aware of stage presence, ever calculating what it was people would see when they looked at his wife. He hated himself for it, but he could not help the thoughts as they came anyway, unbidden. Gabrielle lifted a pale dress of cotton and silk ribbons out of the drawer and laid it on the bed.
“Is this one all right?” she asked. She looked at him with that same dull slightly vacuous stare. James returned it, frowning.
“It’s fine, Gabrielle,” he said. “You can wear whatever you want.” Was it so obvious, the thoughts in his head? Did she really feel the need to ask him these things before she did them? He watched her as she dressed, pulling the dress over her head. Finding a pair of panties in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He felt voyeuristic and chauvinistic all at once and turned away suddenly to stare at the closed door of the room instead. Gabrielle finished dressing and picked up her violin.
“Here,” she said, and came around his side to hand him the instrument. It had lost its polished sheen, that prized high gloss that Gabrielle kept it in when she was living and loving her music. James took it from her.
“Why are you giving this to me?”