"I know," she said. She closed her eyes. "God, I know."
"Suzanne . . ." She shook her head and smiled helplessly.
"I'll read my book."
"We've got to talk sometime," he said. She nodded. He took a deep
breath and left.
Oliver was trembling as he drove away. What was that all about? He and
Suzanne had become more friendly as time had gone by. They often
talked, and she was always sympathetic. But he hadn't expected anything
like what had just happened. His breathing was still messed up. When
she had surrendered to him, he had been jolted by a rush of strength.
He felt like Ghengis Khan or something.
Suzanne was sharp. She remembered everything he said about the computer
system, repeating things back to him word for word months later. She
was very helpful. He depended on her support, he realized. There was
something about her that got to him, a lonely bruised quality. She had
eloped in high school, run away to Tennessee, and returned eighteen
months later. Her family and the church took her back, but . . . She
was still living in a shamed shadow.
He decided that he needed a Guinness. He stopped at Deweys, and two
pints later he was back in control. Better than that. The last of the
warrior-lovers invited the entire bar to the housewarming and went home.
17.
Oliver didn't know what to do about Suzanne. They worked together; he
couldn't avoid her. He didn't want to avoid her. She was alive and
vital and _for him_, somehow. He turned toward her like a plant toward
light. That's the problem, he thought the next morning as he drove into
the hospital parking lot. I've been attracted to her all along. I've
flirted with her and leaned on her. I'm a creep.
Holding that thought firmly, he marched by Molly, waved good morning,
rounded the corner, and went directly to Suzanne's office. She wasn't
there. Her light was off. He went back to Molly and asked whether
Suzanne had come in.
"She called in sick, Honey."
"Ah. Too bad."
"She said she'd be in tomorrow."
"What's so funny?" Molly was giggling.
"I asked her what was sick, and she said it was her hair. Her hair was
sick. I wish _my_ hair was that sick. I hope she doesn't go and do
something foolish."
"I like your hair," Oliver said, setting off the flashing "creep" sign.
The phone rescued him. "I'd better get to work."
"First Fundamentalist Hospital," Molly said, her gorgeous drawl
following him around the corner.
At least he had another day to think things over. His marriage was
going smoothly enough. Dull at times, sure. Weren't all marriages?
Jennifer and he didn't have that much in common, as it had turned out.
But they were good humored, and they shared a disposition to make the
best of things. He had his responsibilities; she had hers; they avoided
confrontation. He was genuinely fond of her. And they had Emma. Emma
was a delight, a little like each of them, although she took after him
in looks. He should have been on top of the world, compared to most
people.
So--why was he reaching for Suzanne? There was something coiled inside
him, a force that he wasn't sure he could control. Intuition told
Oliver that if he ran from it or pretended it wasn't there, he would be
in even bigger trouble.
He was at work before Suzanne arrived the next day. He watched her
drive in and walk toward the front entrance. Even at that distance and
under a parka, her body radiated a compact grace. Her hair was gathered
and held by a red scarf that hung to the nape of her neck. She hadn't
done anything drastic. He waited a few minutes and went to her office.
His heart was beating fast.
"I'm sorry," he began.
She shook her head. "It's my fault, Oliver. You're married and you have
a child. I lost control. I'm--not a good woman."
"You're a wonderful woman."
"I've been praying," she said. "I don't pray like the rest of them, but
God hears everyone."
Oliver pulled at one ear lobe, off balance.
"I'm asking Him to take this want out of me." Suzanne's voice trailed
off. "I don't think I can do it by myself." Oliver's cheeks grew hot.
"I was going to cut my hair practically off, but I couldn't."
"I'm glad you didn't."