They stood there together, facing the window, each lost in reflection. He had left the window open and the night air had sufficiently cooled the room, and now Lindsay was shivering. He guided her with his hand, turning her around to face the door, saying, ?Let?s get you back to your room.?
It was at that precise moment of their turning that he saw Stuart standing in the door, shirtless, his hair disheveled. Behind him Charles could see Francis in her nightgown and robe.
?She was sleepwalking,? Charles gestured to Lindsay. She seemed indifferent to their presence. ?Why she came to my room is anyone?s guess.?
Stuart looked confused, but his face had brightened considerably at the announcement. Charles led Lindsay to him saying, ?Here, why don?t you take her,? and relinquished her into his indecisive hands.
?Will she be??? Stuart began.
?She?ll be fine in the morning,? Charles answered. ?Sleepwalkers sometimes act like this. Their brains are still lost in dream world. Take her to her room, and make sure she lies down and returns to sleep.?
Charles wanted to forget the last hour. It had begun strangely and had grown progressively more surreal. He barely remembered their tryst; it seemed to have happened many years ago.
Stuart turned, leading Lindsay slowly down the hallway. Lindsay, for her part, was either truly entranced in her vision of the phantom gypsy woman or had excelled in her playacting class and was now making use of her training. Charles thought, too late, that she seemed sedate, docile, almost comatose, and he wondered if she really would be fine in the morning. Francis remained behind for a moment longer, looking at Charles with a kind of incredulity, or perhaps simply magnified concern. He could not distinguish anything anymore. His mind told him that what had just happened was a definitive ending to their prolonged escapade (for that was all it was), and then he remembered the softness of her touch, how closely she had held him, how desperately she had accepted his searching hands.
He stood hesitantly, alone now (Francis had silently returned to her room as he contemplated the events of the evening), wondering if he would ever sleep that night. It was clear that things were not as they should have been. He had not properly dealt with Lindsay, and in underestimating her desire for him and contempt for Stuart, only enlarged the gaping hole of their affair. He saw now that he had failed to adequately end it with her, and he considered that, at the time, he had not really wanted to. Even now, he wondered if he truly desired an end to their relationship. It was not as if he had resisted her advance this evening. Whatever his feeling, he knew, if only from a purely intellectual standpoint, that the noose was drawing closer, through no active engagement by either he and Lindsay or Stuart; lies, he knew, catch up eventually, and would expose themselves to the light of day despite their best efforts, despite their work thus far.
He closed his door and sank into the bed. The world was turning to gray, and he felt nothing. What was he to do? Running from one world only to slowly sink and drown in the mire that was self-created, self-inflicted; he knew, or rather had the subtle feeling that he was meant to die young, and his whole body ached knowing this. He felt tears welling in his eyes and the burning in his nostrils that accompany unknown sadness. He felt this occasionally, as if a spirit of impulsive melancholy would suddenly descend upon him and imbue him with all his past tears. It was not a weight or burden of sadness, such as he imagined Christ felt, nor was it a passing kind of dreariness that exhibited itself upon him in the form of mock sympathy?rather, it was the sadness of a tuberculosis patient who, knowing the end is certain, that it will cut short their pitiful lives, realizes that there is so much he will miss. Even though he never cared about these things, they suddenly become precious in a way even treasured things cannot be appreciated, because they are the shadows of things that, for him, will never be.
Charles knew this well. He was acquainted with it from his birth, and he wondered if much of it was connected with his mother. With her death he had forgotten how to laugh. She didn?t have a face anymore, and this saddened him even more, because her countenance was the only thing that brightened his life. He blinked, and the brimming cup of salty tears overwhelmed the twin shining orbs that had seen so much and yet was no closer to knowing truth and reality than he was when he had first breathed air. He wanted to feel this pain, a part of him said; it made him dwell upon it, looking for an answer, a way out. Or perhaps a way to stay locked in. He turned over onto his stomach and pushed his face into the pillow.
A knock sounded on his door, and he quickly rolled back over, wiping his face and composing himself. Stuart cracked the door open, leaning his head in and said softly, ?She?s asleep now. I thought you?d like to know. I asked her why she had wandered into your room. She said something funny.?
?What was it?? Charles answered.
?She said that in her dream you were in love and she had come to say goodbye, for she was going on a long journey. She said she dreamed you had spurned her, and then sent her off to live in the city by herself where she lived aimlessly until she died. That?s when she wandered into your room and you woke her up. What do you make of that?? Stuart had opened the door entirely now, and he and Charles now stood apace from each other. Stuart looked concerned.
Charles grasped the door handle gently and said, ?I think I?m too tired for dream interpretation tonight. Maybe in the morning.? He closed the door without waiting to hear Stuart?s reply and returned to his bed. He inhaled deeply, imbibing the chill air, wishing he could forget her. Before he had finished, his eyes closed and he sank into the dark oblivion of sleep.