“What the hell,” he said, straightening up but making no move towards her.
“Not here,” she said.
“All right. But you needn’t get heroic about it. I wasn’t contemplating rape.”
“I’m not heroic. I had to do that.”
“Well.” He grinned, and bowed. “What next? Your room? That would be better, of course. Upstairs? I confess I’m a little impatient myself.”
She shook her head. “Not here. Not tonight.”
“Not tonight! You are crazy. Good god, are you holding out for a courtship?”
“I’m not holding out. Don’t be smart, Pete. Don’t you see — I want it to be better. The children are upstairs, and I don’t — not here. You can rape me if you want to, that’s exactly what you can do — do you remember how we did that? I’ll come anywhere you say. In town, in New York. Not here.”
“So you’re putting me off. What for?”
“I’m putting myself off.”
“Come to town with me now then. Is there a train?”
She shook her head. “There’s a train, the last one, but I won’t go now. I’ll come tomorrow, any time you say.”
“Let me sleep here, and we’ll go in together in the morning.”
Again she shook her head. “Please, Pete, don’t. I’ve got to arrange things. I’ll come, listen, there’s a train that leaves here at two in the afternoon, gets to Grand Central a little after three. You meet me at the station, or tell me where to come if you’d rather. I’ll stay all night if you want me to; I can arrange that. You must go now, please. Please go.”
“These long engagements are dangerous, my love. By tomorrow I might forget all about it.”
“No you won’t.”
“The hell I won’t. You’re right probably, but you’re not so nice this way, you know too much.”
He stood an instant, intently and silently regarding her, then turned abruptly and started for the vestibule, and she followed. “You wouldn’t like my room,” he went on, as he got into his coat, “it smells of garlic, I think they must have rubbed it into the walls. Besides, it’s barely possible we might be interrupted. There seems to be a lot of extra keys.”
“Oh. Well... somewhere else then...”
“No, it will be all right, we’ll barricade the damn thing. But I’d better meet you at Grand Central. Around three, in the waiting room?”
He was on the terrace, and she was standing on the threshold of the open door. She nodded.
“Yes. A little after.”
XVIII
Breakfast was over, and Lillian was clearing the table. Roy and Panther and Morris had departed for school. Ordinarily, at this juncture, Lora went upstairs to make the beds in her room and Morris’s and Julian’s, for Lillian couldn’t do everything, and Lora preferred to take a share of the work for herself rather than bother with a second maid. Roy and Panther made up their own beds and tidied up their rooms before coming down to breakfast. After the bed-making and a few miscellaneous chores Lora would usually select one room, downstairs or up, for a thorough going-over; she had no schedule for this, but followed her fancy and the pressure of circumstances. The living room and the kitchen were the only ones left to Lillian. Lora didn’t mind her household tasks; quite the contrary; she went about them rapidly and methodically and effectively and was always finished by the time the children arrived for lunch. Julian would usually help her with the beds, standing on one side and smoothing and straightening each cover as she manipulated it into place; sometimes she would flip a sheet right over his head, making a tent-pole of him, and he would shout with glee, jerking his arms frantically up and down; the sheet had become an ocean and he was making waves. Morris had taught him how.
But this morning Lora put Julian’s sweater on him and sent him outdoors to Stan. She wanted to be alone; she didn’t feel like making oceans out of sheets. Indeed there was a doubt whether she would ever feel like that again; it seemed to her improbable. But everything seemed improbable, the past as well as the present. During the night she had dreamed of her father lying on the floor with a hole in his head and blood coming out of it; her mother stood beside him with lowered head, and when Lora asked her why she didn’t cry and her mother lifted her head Lora saw that she had no face to cry with. Nevertheless she knew it was her mother. The dream had been very vivid when she awoke; now it was receding into vagueness. She wished she had asked Pete whether her father had actually shot himself in the head.
She was going to Pete. Or was she? Yes. He could have had her last night if he had held her down a moment when she slipped out from under his hands, out of the chair. She had got away by a miracle, not wanting to get away at all; and then had surrendered. Not, not surrender, it was no triumph for him, it was what she wanted that mattered, and that was plain enough. She wanted to say again the strong short words he had taught her so long ago, she wanted to do all those things again, she wanted to feel him and make him feel her; it was an inescapable necessity. She whispered the words to herself, one after the other, all she could remember of them, but they weren’t right that way, though they did quicken her blood a little and bring a flush to her face; with him, saying and doing them at once, there was something indescribably exciting about them, about all that business...
Arranging the things on Morris’s little desk, she saw that her hands were unsteady. Good lord, she thought scornfully, you might think I was a schoolgirl bride, I can wait till I get there, can’t I?
She must ask Pete about her father, to see if her dream was right. Anyway she wanted to know. Perhaps he couldn’t tell her. She could write to Cecelia, or her mother... no, not her mother...
Pete was to telephone Lewis this morning, to make an appointment to arrange about the money. If the appointment was this afternoon or this evening — but it wouldn’t be, for he was just as anxious as she was. She knew the signs in men much better than she had twelve years ago. Ha, that would be one for you! Pete would get the money from Lewis and carry her off with it; they would go somewhere, anywhere. Lewis would have plenty of sons on his hands then. Albert would probably take Panther... But that brought a smile. She could hardly imagine Albert taking Panther; or, if he did, poor Panther would have a time of it. Lewis would take all of them, draw up contracts, probably...
Nonsense. That she had a rendezvous with Pete was no excuse for going out of her mind. She had said she would stay all night. Well, she wouldn’t. Not that it couldn’t be done, Lillian could very well look after the children. Roy and Panther could for that matter. She could say to Roy, I’m going to stay in town all night, and probably neither of them would ask what for. If they did she would have to have something to say. Also she must tell them not to mention it to Lewis; but that wouldn’t be safe, on account of Julian. Better to tell Lewis; but that meant lying to him, and it wouldn’t be easy; with all his transparencies he was no fool. Once or twice she could get away with it perhaps, but was this a matter of once or twice? A Night of Love, that was a piece Panther played on the piano, and Albert made fun of it. Albert too would know about this, for it was folly to suppose that once or twice would do it. A Life of Love rather. A life of love, she was ready for it and had it coming to her. Pete didn’t call it love, he wouldn’t use that word. Lying afterwards on his back with a cigarette in his mouth and his hands behind his head, he would discuss it at length, using words she had never heard of, most of them invented on the spot she suspected, saying the most outrageous things, stopping only to inhale a puff of his cigarette or to burst into a roar of laughter at himself. She scarcely listened to any of it, lying in languor beside him, not caring. Not caring about her body either, naked if it so happened, naked and satisfied. They would do that again, not once or twice, but a thousand times, ten thousand... a life of love...