Saving Elijah

Elijah.
    "Sounds to me like your son Elijah is going to be fine," Peter said. "I know it doesn't help, just saying he's going to be fine. I'm sure everyone says, 'Oh, don't worry. He's going to be fine.' You must want to strangle them."
    I stared at him. If I had to name the emotion I was feeling at that moment, it would be relieved. Released, even. It seemed to me as though Peter St. Clair understood me in a way no one had in a very long time. And now my tears were flowing, right in the middle of that delicatessen, and the man I was with reached out and placed his hand over mine.
    "I'm sorry, Dinah. I didn't mean to make you think about it, if you weren't thinking about it. "
    I tried to stop crying, and couldn't.
    "That was probably stupid, too. I'm sure you're always thinking about it."
    A young woman at a table nearby was trying not to look. And Peter St. Clair was looking deep into my eyes.
    "Do you want to leave?" he said.
    I nodded, got up, and headed for the door, stood in the parking lot trying to collect myself until he paid the bill and came out.
    "I want to hold you," he said, "but I'm afraid it might complicate things for you."
    I laughed, though I was still crying. "Why, because that woman there ..." I pointed to a woman getting into her car. "... probably knows me from the PTA? And that one there could be a patient of mine?" I wiped my eyes. "Or yours."
    "We could go to my house, Dinah."
    Yes. Without thinking very much about it I said yes.

    *    *    *

    So. There I was, driving down a long country road in a town about ten miles north of my own town, following the car of a man I liked but about whom I knew next to nothing, with clear intent to take off my clothes and have sex with him. A nooner, they call it.
    I turned into a long, winding driveway in backwoods Fairfield, still following him. From what I could see, the man looked pretty comfortable up there in his little black sports car, leaning back, one hand on the wheel. More than I could say for myself.
    I could have turned around right there and headed back to the highway. Instead I kept driving, my car close behind his as we passed a gazebo on the left, stark white and quaint, on the rolling lawn behind the border of birch trees. Now his house was coming into view. My stomach started doing somersaults. What in the world was I doing? Was it too late to come to my senses? What did I know about this guy I picked up at the movies?
    I knew he was a doctor. I knew he was charming, witty, handsome. I knew he had two sons, an ex-wife named Vanessa, was interested in politics, read a lot, especially history. I knew that, at least for the moment, he was interested in me.
    Which was nice.
    I knew Peter didn't quicken my heart the way Sammy had. Did. But I'd been eighteen when I met Sam. I was now old, very old. I couldn't expect heart fluttering now.
    What was I looking for in this house in the backwoods of Fairfield? I had no idea.

    *    *    *

    Peter St. Clair's house was all graceful lines, sloping roofs, and tall arched windows, angled planes in the sunlight. Too large for a man living alone, successful surgeon or not. Maybe he wanted room for visits from Austin and Raymond, whose highbrow names could perhaps be blamed on ex-wife Vanessa, she of the warrior boobs.
    As I pulled my car to a stop next to his, my stomach felt as though it might lurch right out of my mouth any minute now. My teeth were beginning to chatter. For God's sake, this was the way I felt when I was fourteen and working up to my first kiss. Good God, Dinah, get a grip. You're a grown woman and you are going to do this.
    Why? Why was I going to do this?
    Now Peter was standing next to the driver's side door of his car, looking hesitant.
    What if I couldn't go ahead with the sex? I'd just have to tell him I loved my husband and wasn't even sure what I was doing there. The truth. Except that my husband didn't love me anymore. My husband was ready to leave his crazy wife, my husband was making love to a young thing. Still. I could tell him I'd changed my mind. But what if he refused to accept that?
    Who the hell knew what he'd do? For all I knew, Peter St. Clair was a serial killer who lured women to his house, raped them, killed them, cut them up in little pieces, and buried the pieces in the woods. For God's sake, he'd read my column on that very subject. Being a surgeon, he probably had a collection of scalpels in a special drawer for occasions like this and used in some