Small Silent Things

by Robin Page

  “Sit down,” Kate says. “Right here. Sit down.”

  Jocelyn feels faint. She sits down on her haunches, waiting, running her hands up and down Kate’s legs.

  Kate undoes her own pants and steps out of her own panties. She stands just in front of Jocelyn.

  “Up on your knees,” Kate says. “You have to wait a bit. I like to make you wait.”

  Jocelyn sits up, leaving her legs apart, not wanting the contact.

  “Put your legs together,” Kate says. “No, wait, a pillow for you. Two pillows.”

  She leaves Jocelyn kneeling and weak. She retrieves two pillows from the hotel bed. She makes a neat pile of them. “Get on top of these. Spread your legs. Don’t come. Not until I say. Not until I let you. Do you understand?”

  Jocelyn can’t think how that will be possible. She may come at the words. She sits gingerly, barely pressing, settling into the soft cushions as if into a cloud.

  “You’re such a good girl,” Kate says, and rearranges the pillows slightly. Jocelyn feels both of Kate’s hands on her shoulders pressing. “I want you to come later. Be a good girl.”

  Jocelyn is warmer and wetter than she’s ever been before. “Oh God,” Jocelyn hears herself saying.

  She lifts herself up a bit from the pressure of the pillows, trying to put the orgasm off. She cannot be in contact with anything. She leans her face into Kate, holds on to her behind. The taste of her is sticky and salty and animal.

  “What are you going to do for me?” Kate asks, but Jocelyn knows she knows.

  “Anything,” Jocelyn says, licking, beginning. “Anything at all.”

  4

  KATE HOLDS ON TO JOCELYN’S HEAD AND JOCELYN FEELS EVERY PULSE OF her body as it creates pace. She keeps her mouth there, her face steady. Kate pulls her into her, moves faster and faster against her, holding, pulling hair, shrieking. Jocelyn gently sucks, even slows the pace. She likes that she is in charge again. She tries to make it better, longer lasting. She is slick with the wetness of Kate. Not minding at all. When she finally finishes, Kate collapses onto her knees in front of her, kisses her, laughs. She looks at Jocelyn.

  “You didn’t come, did you?” she says playfully.

  “No. I’m being good.”

  Kate smiles at that, takes Jocelyn by the hand, lifts her up from her knees. Jocelyn is unsteady. She grips the hand tightly and follows. The ache between her legs is intense. She has to walk without letting her legs touch. She has to work to keep from coming.

  “Let’s get you washed up then,” Kate says, and Jocelyn wonders at the possibilities of water and warm hands. So much to look forward to.

  Kate says it casually as if Jocelyn is a dirty child, something easy to be dealt with. Jocelyn allows herself to be led. She is sticky faced and sticky fingered, in need of a washing, she supposes. She loves all of what they do. All of what they’ve done. The smell of Kate, the tackiness of her hands and lips. She feels wild and weak. Full, as if something warm has been poured inside her.

  “Sit right here,” Kate says, and Jocelyn sits on the edge of the ceramic bathtub. Her entire body reacts to the cold temperature. An incredible shiver moves through her.

  “Straddle that please,” Kate says, smirky and polite.

  “Look, really,” Jocelyn says. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m definitely going to come.” A shiver moves through her.

  Kate smiles, pinches each nipple gently. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. You’ll come when I tell you to come. Straddle.”

  Jocelyn turns her body—one leg inside the tub, the other on the outside. She reaches out, grabs Kate’s arm. “Please.”

  Kate kisses her. “Just a few minutes more,” she says. She turns the faucet on. She flicks her fingers under, takes her wet hand and rubs it on Jocelyn’s breasts, down her back, along the ridge of her rear.

  “How does this feel?” she asks.

  “Good,” Jocelyn says. “Good.”

  Kate reaches up, pulls down a handheld nozzle. Jocelyn thinks if she looks at it, she will break apart.

  “How does this feel?” Kate asks, letting the water run up and down the leg that is inside the tub.

  “I want you to rub against the bathtub wall,” Kate says, filling up the tub. “I want you to move back and forth until I tell you to stop. Put your hand in the water when I tell you.” Kate leans in to kiss her, to hold her steady, and Jocelyn rocks. She is so close. About to.

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Kate says, plucking at her nipples. “Stop moving. Stop.” But Jocelyn can’t really hear, can’t really stop, and when she keeps going, Kate says, “If you don’t stop when I tell you to, I’ll stop everything. I’ll make you beg.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Jocelyn says. She stops rocking, stands up, legs still apart. “I can’t. I’m telling you.” She presses her swollen mouth against Kate’s.

  “Sit in now. Sit in the tub.” Kate tells her.

  And there is the warm pool of water and she tries not to think about it. She holds the edges of the tub as she sets her body down, not wanting to make a ripple. She holds on to Kate—her arm, her hand, and lays back.

  “Spread your legs,” Kate says, and Jocelyn does.

  “Okay.” And it all is building inside her. “You can come now,” Kate says, and then there is the gentle flow of just warm water, and then a bit more spray and the temperature and the pressure of the water and the nozzle between her legs, and she can’t wait anymore, and she reaches up for Kate’s head for her tongue, for her mouth, and Kate brings the nozzle closer and closer and the pressure of the water is firmer and harder, and that finally makes Jocelyn scream, and come, and move wildly and reach out for the hand that has the nozzle so she can take charge of it, and Kate says, “Say thank you, now. Say thank you to me.” And Jocelyn can hear her own voice outside herself saying, “Thank you, thank you,” and then Kate is kissing her, and is letting go of the nozzle, and it is the flat palm of her hand between Jocelyn’s legs, and she is holding her tightly now, where the spray of water used to be, and she is pressing and managing her, until finally there is the clench, the twitch, the pulse, and the thrill, and then it’s over.

  AFTERWARD, KATE WASHES HER GENTLY WITH SOAP AND WATER, BEING careful with the space between her legs. She tells her to wait a minute, to relax, and she brings whiskey from the minibar. One for each of them.

  “Let’s get drunk,” she says. They clink glasses and throw back the drinks.

  “Did you do that when you were a kid?” Kate asks. She sets down her empty glass and touches the washcloth to Jocelyn’s body.

  “Which thing?”

  “Come, in the bathtub.”

  “I did,” Jocelyn says, and they both laugh, remembering water, and faucets, and warmth.

  Kate adds warm water and attends to every part of her. She washes and conditions Jocelyn’s hair. When she finishes, she helps Jocelyn out of the tub. She dries her with the thick hotel towel, everywhere, even the soles of her feet. When she needs to, she turns her. She pauses, she speaks when she comes to the scars on the back of Jocelyn’s body.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what these are?”

  Jocelyn does not want to answer. She sits heavily down on the closed toilet seat. She waits, watches. Kate’s eyes stay on Jocelyn’s body. She spills lotion into her hands. She rubs it into each section of skin, up and down each arm and leg. She files Jocelyn’s newly brushed nails. She massages each of the fingers. There is nothing erotic here, just care, and Jocelyn finds that the tenderness is both wonderful and frightening.

  Finally, she answers. “My mother had a boyfriend. He used to beat us. My mother used to tell him to do it. With everything. Extension cords, belts. He had a dog leash. We didn’t have a dog then. Not until later.”

  She tries to make this last one a joke, but it doesn’t work. She sees the dogs. She sees herself hitting. She squeezes her eyes shut.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate says.

  It is like an egg cracking. The wet and slime of the past, wanti
ng to scoop it up, but unable to put it back.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to do that, really. Please.”

  They move to the hotel bed. Jocelyn is naked, but Kate has put the plush hotel robe on. The room is cold. The AC is blasting. They burrow into the covers, into each other.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate says again, and pulls Jocelyn closer. “I’m sorry it happened. I won’t bring it up again. I just didn’t know.”

  Jocelyn allows herself to be held and then they doze. When she wakes again, she finds herself wanting Kate again. She turns to see if she’s awake. They grin at each other, knowing what to do. Kate pours each of them another whiskey. They are drinking in bed, making silly toasts to tennis. Fun and casual. People will clean up after them, change the sheets if there are spills.

  “You aren’t going to be able to coach tomorrow if we keep this up.”

  “You aren’t going to be able to play,” Kate says back.

  “Who cares!” Jocelyn says. The alcohol is relaxing. It’s a parallel universe.

  “Who cares!” Kate says, affirming that she’s inside it too.

  On that night, they cannot get enough of each other. They cannot be satisfied. They laugh. They drink. They fuck. They sleep.

  IT IS FIVE FIFTEEN WHEN THEY WAKE. IN MINUTES, THEY REALIZE THEY have overslept. Not by much, but Kate wants to be back in her room by five thirty.

  “Leilah’ll never wake before six. She—”

  “I know,” Jocelyn says. “My mother was a drinker. I’m shocked that you drink.”

  “Not around her,” Kate says, pushing back covers. “I just have to get there before Mathias wakes. She’ll be grumpy.”

  “I get it,” Jocelyn says, feeling a pang for Lucy, and surprisingly for Conrad too.

  They both have headaches. Kate’s hair is a mess, but Jocelyn helps her find her clothes, her underwear. She uses Jocelyn’s toothbrush, even though Jocelyn protests.

  “Just think of all the places my mouth has been,” Kate says, brushing.

  Jocelyn throws her jacket at her, her shoes. Kate spits in the sink, finishing. She retrieves the rest of her stuff, walks over to Jocelyn. They are face-to-face, and Kate gives Jocelyn a kiss on the cheek. Jocelyn feels slightly nauseated, but happy. She opens the door. Kate walks out, turns toward her, staring. It feels as if she might kiss her again, might come back inside.

  “Go!” Jocelyn says. “Quick!”

  Kate rushes at her, gives her a playful kiss, almost smashing into her. It’s teasing and Jocelyn laughs, and just as they pull away, the exit door at the end of the hall opens, and both she and Kate blink in its direction to see who might be coming.

  For the first moments, everything slows. Everything tilts. Jocelyn finds focus, but it can’t be real. She looks, squints, and there, in the door, is a woman, familiar, and yet not so. She is walking quickly toward them, all Lululemon, ponytailed, and sweaty. She is all smiles when she sees them. Up early for exercise, Jocelyn thinks, aware of how delayed her brain is as she makes the connection. The woman lifts a hand to Kate, and then sees Jocelyn leaning out of her door.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Missy says. She looks back and forth between them. Her voice full of insinuation. The cat with the canary.

  Kate waves as if nothing is going on. Jocelyn lifts a hand, processing it. Are they far enough apart? Could this be a coincidence? They are both disheveled, tired looking. Jocelyn is in pajama bottoms. They should have been more careful, she thinks. How will they explain Kate, just outside her hotel room door? No newspaper in sight. Everyone knows Kate’s sexual orientation.

  “Thanks for the talk,” Kate says, as if she and Jocelyn have had an early morning powwow.

  Jocelyn doesn’t speak, but watches Missy’s reaction. Missy looks at Jocelyn, waiting for her to respond, and then away. Kate walks away, disappears through the exit door that Missy’s just come through, and Jocelyn feels ridiculously abandoned.

  “You two are up awfully early,” Missy says, looking straight through Jocelyn. “I didn’t realize you two were such good friends.”

  Jocelyn doesn’t say anything. She hates Missy. Of all the people. Of all the times. It is too early. They are too much of a mess. Missy isn’t stupid, she thinks, feeling a strange certainty, a lid closing.

  She shuts the door without speaking to Missy. She turns her back, lets herself sit on the floor, just in the spot where they fucked the night before. What will she do? she wonders. What will Missy do? What will happen if Conrad finds out?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Claudette

  1

  HE LEAVES A VOICE MAIL ON HER PHONE. AT LUNCH BETWEEN FRESHMAN Comp and Argument and Research, she listens to it in her small office. He is nervous. He speaks too quickly.

  “It is me. Simon,” he says. And then, “Well, it is I, Simon. I must do better with my grammar, now that I know my daughter is a professor. Well, I mean you are a professor.” There is a second or two of silence, before he says without much confidence, “I was wanting to come for another visit. Maybe I could meet your husband. Maybe it could be for the birth of the child. I do not mean to be pushy.”

  She wants to call him back and say to him, There is nothing to my husband. She wants to say, My child is not his. She wants to say, I have committed the same crime that has been committed against me. My baby will not know its true father.

  What would he think of her then? A woman who has had an affair, a woman with a PhD, and yet hasn’t had the sense to use birth control.

  She thinks texting might be better, but then changes her mind. I will call him when I know my answer. He will not impinge on my life.

  2

  HE SHOWS UP WITHOUT NOTICE A WEEK LATER. SOMETHING ABOUT A PRIVATE plane. A feeling about the baby. Fears that something had happened. Apologies. She does not know how he has found her here, at her parents’ house in Newton. Maybe the detective is still paid to follow her. It can’t be legal. She thinks briefly about calling the police.

  “I am very upset,” she says. “You can’t just show up here. This is my life. This is a violation of privacy. This is not cool. Are you having me followed?”

  He flinches back from the doorway as if she has hit him.

  “You are right,” he says. “I am so sorry. I don’t know why. I really just had to see you. I had this thought that something might be wrong. That something happened to the baby and you. You didn’t call me back. Now I will go. You are right.”

  He turns to walk down the steps of the porch. She sees that he is thin. He is not at all like her father. He is tall and lean and even a bit frail. Pity rises in her although she tries to resist. How often has she worried that something was wrong with the child inside her own belly? How many times has she lain awake at night? How often will she do this later on in life when she is an old woman?

  “You can come in for just a moment,” she says. “This is my parents’ home, but I guess you know that. I am finishing up, getting it ready. It’s too far from Cambridge for me and my husband. We may sell it.”

  “Do you want to sell it?” he asks. “Maybe you would like to wait and rent it.”

  “Maybe,” she says, but feels as she has for some time, especially indecisive.

  “I can help you,” he says. “I mean, it is just me, so I can help if you ever need anything. I would love to help you.”

  She does not like his desperation. It scares her.

  “Maybe,” she says. She holds the door open for him. He walks cautiously ahead of her.

  3

  HE THRUSTS A LAVENDER GIFT BOX AT HER ONCE THEY ARE INSIDE. SHE locks the front door. She sees his trembling when he hands her the box.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “You do not have to open it now,” he says, staring at the dark foyer that they enter through, the winding stairs, the millwork.

  She presses the box inside her purse, wondering briefly where it has come from, what could be so small.

  They make their way t
hrough the empty house, he scuttling behind her as if he were a much older man. She is happy most of her parents’ things are boxed up. She does not want him rooting through their belongings, even with his eyes.

  He asks her nothing, and she tells him nothing, and he waits patiently as she packs up her mother’s favorite chandelier—white tissue paper, Styrofoam peanuts. Each crystal carefully wrapped. She has no idea why she has decided to take it with her. It’s too ostentatious, too large for her small apartment, but she can’t seem to leave the shining suns of glass behind.

  Before they leave, she fumbles around in a box marked KITCHEN, draws two glasses out, and fills them with water from the tap. She places one glass in his hand and slides down the living room wall and sits on the hardwood floor. He looks at her and does the same.

  There is something heavy in the house that she feels, something in need of being aired out. She glances out across the fields, takes a long sip of the water, which tastes metallic and cold. The shadow of her father’s body, the great mountain of the man he was, is out there, expanding, full and busy across the vegetable garden. His head a darker shadow even than the fallow land.

  Simon sips his water. She sees the fingers on the glass. They are shaped just like hers. Her long limbs, her light skin. How has she ever believed she was Abrahm’s child?

  “It will take me some time,” she says to him.

  “Yes,” he says. “I have time.”

  4

  INSIDE THE BOX, A TINY RING. A RING MADE FOR A LITTLE GIRL. SHE presses it onto her pinky, but it is too small. Thin as tin and lined with scratches. The number 333 is in the inside band. It is definitely real gold. She can tell by its color. A garnet, tiny and protruding like a pen nib. It is modest. Not very beautiful.

  No memory of it, she thinks, but it must have been mine.

  How strange to look at so many things that have always been mine, and yet not to recognize them.

  A miniature bed of aged cotton is inside the box to keep the ring safe—yellow as pee. She lifts the box to her nose. Citrus smell, subtle and sweet. Orange.