Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.
Previously: The relationship between Dex and the narrator has crossed the line and it looks as though the pair might be finished.
***
This time it is I who stay away from Dex. Although my strange liaison with her has never been easy or predictable, her absence feels like a death, a hole in my life, a salted piece of land. With Dex, there was always an anticipation of the unknown. Now there is nothing. I tell myself that it's for the best. It becomes my mantra, filling the space that she previously occupied. I am still unnerved and bewildered by the violence that I might have perpetrated had Dex chosen to resist me. It's as though she had expertly peeled away my layers and revealed a kernel of ugliness and violence that lay at my core. I hadn't expected to find it. I'd thought myself better than that. And even Dex, for all of her unreasonable demands on me, deserves better.
I don't attempt to call her and don't answer any calls from unknown numbers. There are several of these, but no messages are left on voicemail. It may be Dex, but the numbers are all different and I don't bother to return the calls to find out. If it is Dex, then for some reason she's pursuing me now. In unguarded moments, I find myself hoping that she is, and then I push the thought away. Months ago, I would have reveled in the attention. Now it saddens me. I hope that she will soon lose interest and find someone else. No one deserves the brute I appear to be.
I spend the weekend moping around the house, listening to older Coltrane, drinking single malt and trying to sort through conflicting emotions. It's my typical breakup behavior and I've wrapped myself in it like a hairshirt. If Dex and I ever had what could be called a relationship, this is the most difficult and confusing end I've ever experienced.
After finishing what's left of my favorite bottle, I'm just as adrift as I was before. I wonder, for example, whether my sexual palate is ultimately averse to the kind of spice Dex has brought to it. I wonder whether I'm capable of bowing to someone else's will as Dex appeared to want me to. Am I a lesser man for even considering it and then resorting to violence when it didn't suit me?
***
Monday comes too soon. I arrive at the office early, wanting to avoid the usual Monday morning pleasantries with Sharon. The messages on the whiteboards in the lunchroom strike me as intolerably bleak. I close the door to my office and resolve to bury myself in the work that Dex so often distracted me from. My eyes are gritty and my soul is empty as I sit at my desk, sorting through the emails that have accumulated in my inbox.
A reminder of a lunch date surprises me when it flashes up on the computer screen. The hours have flown by. I debate cancelling, but then my stomach growls a warning that I know I'd better heed.
My friend is already at the restaurant when I arrive. Out of duty I inquire about his family, a disinterested wife, two surly teenagers, and an incontinent dog. There's the usual litany of anecdotes, half funny, half depressing.
I ask him, in a way guys seldom do when there are safe things like sports and politics to talk about, whether it was all worth it—whether following the well-trodden paths from dating to marriage to kids has given him the sort of fulfillment I'm now afraid I'm incapable of.
He seems surprised. "I hope I'm not detecting any regret," he says. "I've lived vicariously through you forever."
"Oh?"
He leans back and smiles. "You've never lacked for women and I've never seen you pining for permanence. To me, your grass is greener."
I tell him that I sometimes wonder about it.
He nods and sips at his beer. "Don't get me wrong, there's comfort in comfort. More often than not I'm happy. But there are moments when you wonder how the person you were became the person you are. You wonder how the marriage you had became what it is and whether it's boredom or comfort or a profound lack of energy that keeps you from wanting to make it better. Then you get nostalgic for the good old days. You remember the beginning, when you were young and carefree. You'd go at it like rabbits then, with your happy rabbit fuck-faces and not a care in the world." My friend sighs. "I miss the rabbit years.
"Then, before you know it, come the manatee years. You have kids now and you've let yourself go. You're fat and ungainly and you wallow in warm, comfortable waters. You're tired and distracted and you've obeyed the biological imperative and have seen where that has led you. If you take your vitamins or the little blue pill and get around to doing it, you have to do it quietly, otherwise you wake up the kids. You do it slowly, as though you're underwater and anything too violent or unexpected is enough to cause you to float away from each other. You do it at the edge of the bed because the middle squeaks too much. You do it infrequently because you're lucky to find yourselves in all the murk that surrounds you."
He shakes his head and this time gulps his beer. "You're one of the last non-manatees that I know."
"Why manatee?" I ask.
"Have you ever heard manatees fuck?"
"No."
"There you go then. They're like parents—you can't imagine anything so big and clumsy ever mating."
"What happens after the manatee years?"
My friend looks genuinely surprised. "There's something after the manatee years?"
***
I've made it through the week. I've gone through the motions, attended the meetings, made the decisions.
Only Sharon, my business partner, notices something amiss. "Are you okay?" she asks before I leave for the day.
"Sure."
"You seem subdued."
You have no idea how subdued I've been, I think. I merely shrug.
"Dex?"
"I'd prefer not to talk about it."
"Okay."
"Later, maybe. Not now."
It's Friday night again. On my way home I stop at the liquor store to replenish the stock that I'd put such a dent in the weekend before. I'm feeling marginally better now and regard my tumbler of whiskey as a friend rather than a crutch.
The house is cold and empty and I light a fire. It doesn't do much to heat the house but it's comfortable and the sight of it relaxes me.
The doorbell rings during an intermission of the hockey game I'm watching. I'm tempted to ignore it. I'm not expecting anyone and the third period is about to start. I top up my glass and listen for footsteps retreating down the driveway. There's only silence.
With a pang I realize that it could be Dex. I get very little unexpected traffic up here. There are no neighbors. My street is slim pickings for salesmen. I'd bought the house ten years ago, attracted to the view of the town at the foot of the escarpment below and the protected forest behind. I'd been drawn by the promise of solitude and the proximity of what passes for civilization. The house stands alone and is far too large for one person. At the time, it suited my ego well. Perhaps it still does.
There's still no sound from outside. Perhaps Dex, if that's who it is, has left. Perhaps, I realize, she's still standing there in the February cold.
I'm being an idiot. Again. If it is Dex, then she knows I'm home. My car is outside and there are lights on, everywhere, it seems, but my brain. I curse myself and my indecision. Dex is the injured party in this and here I am adding the indignity of leaving her on my doorstep like a beggar I'm too timid to face.
I hurry to the door and heave it open. An envelope falls to the floor, carried by the frigid night air that eddies around my bare feet.
I look for her. She's nowhere to be seen but I can sense that she's around here somewhere watching me.
I open the envelope and withdraw a card. I glance up again but there's nothing.
I read: Forgive me. Please.
My heart gives a lurch. The breath catches in my throat. She's apologizing? To me?
I look at the words again. I really, really don't understand this woman. It's almost as though, behind the sturdy battlements of her aloofness, she genuinely cares for me. It hadn't occurred to me. I'd convinced myself that I'd been an easily replaced plaything for her. An experiment. Certainly there was nothing in our last meeting to suggest otherwise.
I still can't see her. "You can come in," I say into the darkness.
Nothing happens for a moment. Then a shadow detaches from an oak that stands naked and solitary by the driveway. The lonely streetlight out front lights her from behind. She seems small and fragile as she crunches through the snow at the edge of the driveway. Her steps are slow and deliberate, as though she shares in my apprehension and uncertainty. She enters the halo of the light that spills from the house. She's all goth tonight—dark make-up, dark clothes, and clunky boots. I'm reminded of how different we are and of how much we've shared. At that moment, I realize that I've been with no one more beguiling.
Without pausing her approach, she's in my arms. At the touch of her, I relax.
"I'm sorry too," I whisper.
She leans back and places a finger softly to my lips. "No words," she says.
A command again. The tone is different now than the last time. Less imperious. I nod and pull her gently into the house.
In the light of the living room, I see how tired she is. Dark make-up can't quite hide it. I move to her and she places a hand on my chest and takes a step back. I stand and watch as she unlaces and removes her boots, losing four inches in the process. She looks almost self-conscious in what she is doing. There's no brazen exhibitionism, only a subtle vulnerability that I haven't seen from Dex before. She unzips the dress she is wearing and steps out of it. She stands motionless and naked before me. There's no sultry pose, just Dex, arms at her sides, small feet spread shoulder width apart. Our eyes lock. I can't quite read her but am aware that something significant is happening.
At length she approaches me and begins to unbutton my shirt. Still no words pass between us. My hand finds the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her soft, smooth skin and I gently pull her to me. She doesn't resist but does look up at me with an uncertain smile.
I'm soon as naked as she is, standing in the middle of the living room.
She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom.
Things seem easier between us after we have taken a shower. The hot water has washed the residual tension away. We've touched everything there is of the other that there is to touch, explored each other without sexual imperative. Without words.
Now we're back in the living room. She's naked, reclined unselfconsciously on my sofa. I see the swallowtail tattoo low on her abdomen. She picks up my forgotten tumbler of scotch and eyes me speculatively.
"What now?" I ask, uttering the first words spoken since she entered my home.
She shrugs. Her eyes are wide and dark. "What do you want?" She's not dodging my question for a change. She wants to know.
This could be a new beginning. I'd like for it to be. She's leaving it to me, allowing me, perhaps, to set the ground rules. I'm not even sure that I weigh the consequences before the words are out of my mouth: "I want to be with you."
So few words to describe what I want. I want more. More of Dex. More than just the occasional visit. More accountability. More of what I've come to crave. I want the opportunity to atone.
