He rose up out of the bed, in his pajamas, and standing directly in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders. Her bones felt hollow, as he pressed his fingers into her; she seemed to give, to become smaller. She let her arms fall to her sides and she remained silent, passive, even somewhat remote. And presently, as he held onto her, the troubled lines left her face. He pressed his hands harder into her, and for her the situation ceased to be a concern. Everything about her smoothed out and became relaxed and at peace.
Letting go of her shoulders he took her by the hand and led her to the bed. She went placidly, stepping in without a complaint, and arranged herself as he unbuttoned his pajamas.
“Cold?” he said.
“Not too much,” she said in a detached voice. “I have a little headache, that’s all.”
As he entered the bed with her he felt her hands reach past him to pull up the covers. She drew them over them both and then she reached up and clasped him.
“I hope Taffy doesn’t wake up,” she said, all at once becoming concerned and stiff.
“Don’t worry about it,” he told her.
“But suppose she starts looking for me and comes running in here. Oh the hell with it.” With a surge of authority she tugged him down to her.
Her hips were small, and her stomach, beneath him, seemed soft. But she smelled marvelous, from bath salts that she had put on. Her body, all over, was completely smooth, and without fat. She had kept herself in trim, like an athlete or a dancer. Just what he had longed for.
5
After they were done they sat on the back porch in their robes, in the dark chilly night air. Wind blew around them and forced the shrubs and trees in the garden to lean back and forth. They could hear the wind stirring big, invisible trees off somewhere, in another yard.
It all had a world-wide quality.
Neither of them said anything. Susan had put on wool socks, large ski socks that covered her up to her calves. He had on a pair of argyles, but even so he found himself shivering and quaking, on and on, at an orderly rate. An almost mechanical tingling. Probably, he decided, it had to do with muscle fatigue. He felt tired in every part of him, but he did not want to go inside. He enjoyed the sound of the wind off elsewhere, plucking at trees they would never see.
“Scary,” Susan whispered.
“I don’t agree,” he said. He could smell flowers. Once, a moth flapped past, banged against the screen door and departed. Perhaps it had gone inside the house; they had left the door open behind them, to be certain of not being cut off.
Gripping his hand Susan squeezed, and then she knocked her hard head against him.
“You’ve never been married, have you?” she said.
“No,” he said.
“But you’ve had sex before. Either that or you’ve read a particularly good book on it. You didn’t fumble around. I didn’t think you would. I want you to think a long time about this. I’m divorced from Walt. It’s a big step for a woman who’s been married twice to contimplate a third marriage. But marriages are made and broken. It’s better to take a chance and make a mistake than to—” She considered. “Fear isn’t a good thing to go by. Holding back for fear of making a mistake. Or is this all so far beyond anything you’ve been contemplating that it’s ridiculous?”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.” But actually it was. Now he found himself wanting to go back in, go to bed and sleep. “Let’s go in,” he said to her.
“Fine,” she said. “Listen,” she said, as she bolted the screen door after them. “You go to your room and I’ll go back to mine. Mrs. Poppinjay has a key, and while she’s supposed not to come until nine or so, we might oversleep.”
“Okay,” he said, more interested in sleep. The time was four-thirty and his fatigue had become an ache.
Going off toward her room she paused long enough to blow him a kiss. Good night, her mouth declared soundlessly, and then he lost sight of her as each of them opened a door.
What a night, he thought as he climbed into the still warm, damp rumpled, nice-smelling bed.
Marriage, he thought.
And yet the idea did not disturb him. It had a naturalness, as if it could be anticipated in the ordinary course of things.
I guess that would make Taffy my step-daughter, he thought to himself. And what about the office. R & J Mimeographing Service, my job there. Would I inherit part of it … become part owner?
It all sounded good to him. He went to sleep pleased, his mind on tomorrow.
The next morning, at ten-thirty, he and Susan drove downtown together in his Merc, to the office.
As they parked across the street, out of the two-hour zone, Susan said, “Listen, I have to run down and see about some dress material. You go on in and I’ll see you there in about half an hour.” Shading her eyes she peered and said. “The door’s unlocked. Zoe must be in there. If she’s too obnoxious, just walk out and sit here in the car, or wherever you want. But I don’t think she will be. She probably just won’t say much to you; she’ll probably be busy typing.”
“Is there anything you want me to say to her?” he asked, feeling vaguely nettled.
“No,” she said, standing on the sidewalk and closing the car door on her side. In her suit she looked quite chic and well-groomed. “Of course,” she said, bending down to lean in the car window, “don’t mention about your living at the house or anything about last night.”
Susan hurried off. He locked up the car, crossed the street, and with a great deal of uneasiness, entered the office.
As Susan had said, Zoe paid no attention to him. In the back at one of the desks she worked determinedly at the old, massive typewriter, turning out one page after another. For a time he hung around in the front, where the customers evidently were supposed to be, and then he took the bull by the horns and passed back of the counter, by the several desks. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” Zoe said.
He said, “I’m going to be working here.”
“Ah,” she said, in a merry, brisk voice. “So Susan tells me.” Glancing momentarily in his direction she said, “Of course that has little or no importance to me since I’ll be leaving.”
“I see,” he said, nodding as if it were news to him.
“Probably in the next few days. I’ve been wanting to get out of this dead-end for at least a year.” She ceased typing and swiveled her chair around so that she faced him. More slowly and forcefully she said, “We’ve lost money steadily, as you probably know. I imagine Susan told you all that. She has as little faith in this business as I have. I don’t know why she wants to go on. There’s a dime store across the street that sells paper and ribbon and carbon paper; we can’t compete with them because they buy so much at once. The big drugstore on the corner sells portables. That doesn’t leave anything but renting machines and doing manuscript typing and mimeographing, and there isn’t any money in that. Even if she had money to invest it wouldn’t do any good, not unless she plans to move to some other location, and if she does that she’ll lose almost everything we put into fixing this place up.”
He said nothing. It threw him somewhat.
“What, exactly, did she hire you to do?” Zoe said. “Just do general work around here? Can you type? She certainly doesn’t plan to do the typing and stencil-cutting herself … I’ve been doing most of it.” Refined triumph appeared on her wrinkled, middle-aged face. She had no sympathy for him or Susan; she had become heartless now that she knew she was going to leave.