Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"This meeting will probably run into dinner. I'm sorry, really I am," he said.

"Oh, then you won't be home until much, much later," I realized.

"Yes. Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine. I'll eat all our leftovers. It will take me a while to decorate the tree anyway. Don't worry about me, really. I'll be fine."

"I'll try to call you later and let you know how late things will run," he said and then went in to change. He emerged wearing one of his beautiful wool sports jackets and slacks. When he put on his dark blue wool overcoat, I thought he never looked more handsome and told him.

"Well, you have to look good for these people. They expect it. That's one of the drawbacks to being a star: everyone wants you to look as though you had just walked onto a stage. You have to fit their image because you're continually in the spotlight. If a hair's out of place or you fail to smile, it could be a disaster. Next thing you know, they're spreading rumors about you and you don't get offered good parts.

"Are you sure you will be all right?" he asked again. "Maybe you should go to a movie? Let me give you some money for a taxi and a movie," he said and began to take out his wallet.

"Oh, no. I have plenty to do, even some homework."

He shook his head.

"Homework. Some of those teachers are such bores. Can you imagine giving homework over the holidays? All right. I'll talk to you later," he said and kissed me goodbye.

I had told him I would be all right, but the moment the door closed and I was all alone again, I looked around the empty apartment and felt like crying. How I wished we didn't have to be lovers in secret and he could have taken me with him. I would have been very interested in everything that happened, even though for him it had all become boring routine.

I turned to the little Christmas tree.

"Well," I said, "at least I have you. Now we'll get to know each other well."

I opened the boxes of decorations Michael had bought and began to dress the tree. The hours passed by ever so slowly just because I wanted them to fly by. I spent as much time as I could on the tree, fixing it and then changing it until everything looked balanced. After that, I ate my leftovers and listened to music and thought about Michael. I cleaned up and then tried to finish my homework, but I couldn't concentrate on my reading. Continually, I would gaze at the clock and become furious at those stubborn little hands just inching their way around. I tried to make a fire and distract myself by watching some television. It grew later and later and Michael didn't call. I dozed off a few times, but woke with a start, afraid I had failed to hear the phone ringing.

My poor attempt at a fire died. When I awoke from one of my short naps and checked the clock for the hundredth time, I was shocked to discover it was nearly twelve-thirty. Why hadn't Michael called? I wondered.

When I gazed out the window, I saw that it had snowed harder and the sidewalks wore a white blanket. The streets were wet and slushy. Horns blared as drivers cut and stopped around each other. People get into accidents in bad weather, I thought. Perhaps something had happened to Michael. How would I know? He didn't want anyone to know I was waiting at his apartment, so no one would call.

Despite my worry, it was hard to keep my eyes open, and after another half hour had passed, I drifted off again on the sofa and didn't awaken until I heard the door opening. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up. Michael turned to close the door behind him and fumbled with the handle and lock. I heard him go, "Shh."

"Michael?"

"Huh?" he said, spinning around. His hair was disheveled and his jacket looked quite rumpled. "Shh," he said, bringing his forefinger to his lips. "You don't wanna wake Dawn."

"Michael, I am Dawn," I said, smiling. I stood up. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?" he said again. He blinked and swayed.

"Michael, are you . . . drunk?" I asked. I had seen Daddy Longchamp enough times in this condition to know I didn't even have to ask.

"Naw," he said, waving his hand and nearly falling forward. "Not a bit. I just had . . ." He held up his right hand and squeezed his right forefinger and thumb together. "This much. Every ten minutes," he added and laughed again. His laughter carried him forward and he had to reach out to brace himself on the wall so he wouldn't fall on his face.

"Michael!" I cried and ran to him. He put his arm over my shoulder and leaned on me. How he smelled. It was as if he had taken a bath in whiskey. "Where were you? Why did you drink so much? How did you manage to get home?"

"Home?" he said. He gazed around. "Oh yes, home."

As I guided him toward the sofa, I noticed what looked like lipstick smudged on the side of his chin. There were also hairs on his jacket, red hairs!

"Michael, where were you? Who were you with?" I demanded. He didn't respond. He lowered himself to the sofa and fell back, gazing at me dumbly and blinking, obviously trying to bring me and everything around us into focus.

"Why is this room spinning around and around?" he muttered and closed his eyes. Then he slid down the back of the sofa until he was on his back, his eyes shut tight.

"Michael!” I shook him, but all he did was groan. "Oh, what's the use," I cried. I lifted his legs and took off his shoes. Then, with great effort and strain, holding him up as I did so, I peeled off his overcoat and sports jacket. He was too heavy for me to carry to the bedroom. Instead, I hung up his coat and jacket and got him a blanket. When I spread it over him, he moaned and turned on his side. I fixed the pillow under his head and then I sat at his feet, watching him breathe deeply and regularly.