by Chip Cheek
Never mind the jack-in-the-box. He kissed the back of her neck and ran his hands down her sides, began lifting the green dress up over her waist. She turned to him.
“I thought you would never come.”
“I thought they would never go to bed.”
They dropped to the rug, pulling at each other’s clothes. They didn’t bother with the dress, only her underwear, his trunks. She hooked her legs around him and drew him in. That first blissful entering. He came quickly, just to get it over with. Hours lay ahead of them.
They’d christened the game room, the kitchen counter, all of the bedrooms. That first night, in the blue bedroom, she’d introduced him to the term coitus interruptus, which was Latin, she said, for “pull out.” And so he’d pulled out and jerked off, flinging a little shower onto her buttocks and onto the backs of her thighs. They made a mess of the sofa, of the throw pillows, of the sheets, until he was spent. But his need for her was insatiable. He kissed every mole. He breathed her pits in, the faint onion and baby powder. He sucked her toes. (She wasn’t ticklish, like he was.) He spread her thighs and devoured her. She was finer, less profuse than Effie. He pressed his tongue in as far as it would go, the taste of her tart like a plum, until she spread herself with her fingers and tapped a tender bulb, the size of a bb, nestled in a hood of delicate skin, and told him that was where the gold was. And when he toyed with it she whimpered and arched her back, told him harder, softer, until she cried and shuddered and squeezed his head between her thighs.
They wandered the house, exploring things. She did. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her. While she looked through the kitchen drawers he nestled his penis between her buttocks and cupped her breasts. He told her again and again how much he wanted her, how beautiful she was, how he never wanted these nights to end. They were the best nights of his life, he said. She told him she loved his hands, how he touched her, that she loved the sharp tan lines around his neck and arms, that she loved his chest and stomach and the line of hair under his belly button, that she loved his voice, his accent, the way he said her name—Awlma—a name she had always hated until now. “Awlma,” she tried, but it wasn’t right. “Say it,” she said, and he said, “Alma,” pulling her hair aside, kissing the back of her neck, “Alma, Alma, Alma.” He was up again, pressing it against her.
They made use of the fresh baby carrots they found in the refrigerator, of the jar of strawberry jam, of the canned sliced peaches. They made themselves slick with olive oil. Their knees slipped on the linoleum, they fell, laughing. In the dining room he bent her over the sideboard and, lubricated already, gave it to her in the French manner, as she’d called it the first time, when he’d asked if she wanted it that way. (“I’ll let you, if that’s what you mean.”) A shaft of light fell over them from the kitchen, and he spread her buttocks and watched the livid rim she made around his cock. Her muscles fluttered. She brought his hand around to her front and made him rub her where she liked. He pulled out, almost, stopping at the edge of the rim, slowly started again. She let out a groan. He felt like a god. She worked herself, pressing his fingers with hers. And when he came he pushed in deep, rattling the decanters on the sideboard, the orgasm like a long wave that rose slowly, slowly, to an unbearable height, and then slowly, slowly faded.
Out in the living room she put on an Andrews Sisters record and danced around the room to “Rum and Coca-Cola,” pulling her oiled hair up, a shiny nymph, while he watched from the sofa, trying to stroke himself back up. He was aching and depleted. She sang off-key, her voice too low for the melody—but the next number suited her better: “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.” A dim, red-light melody, a minor key, a strutting tempo. She flung herself back against the grizzly bear by the bookcase. He beckoned to her and she came to him and pulled him to the rug. Straddled his head and bent down to swallow him whole. She could always bring him back from the dead. He buried his face up into her, the dusky scent of her that he loved.
Then the windows stood out from the gloom, and suddenly—it always seemed to come so suddenly—it was time to go.
They lay on the rug, on pillows, a quilt spread out beneath them, tracing each other. Nothing was barred. He could know her completely. He knew places on her body that she would never know herself. He hid nothing from her either—mostly. He was shy of the calluses on his feet and kept them away from her. He clenched tight when her fingers went between his buttocks.
“Say my name,” she whispered, tugging at his armpit hairs, and he said it, and she smiled and kissed him. “Now tell me you love me,” she said.
It startled him. But it was easy to oblige, because he did love her, he thought: it had been on his lips all night, his all-encompassing need for her. “I love you,” he said, running his hand over her stomach and over her breasts, caressed her chin and her lips, and kissed her. “Alma, Alma, I love you. I love you. I love you.”
They showered together in the upstairs bathroom, rubbing the lavender soap onto each other’s skin. It wasn’t like the soap at Clara’s, but the scent was light, and he hoped, if Effie smelled it on him, it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. She leaned her forehead on his shoulder as the hot water beat down on them. He loved her long toes, her slender ankles, the healthy veins that crossed them. He loved her shins and knees and thighs, he loved the soft swell of her hips, he loved her belly button, he loved her ribs, he loved each of her moles and freckles individually, he loved her small breasts, the nipples, fairer than Effie’s, that stood up half an inch when they were stimulated, as they were now, he loved her little attached earlobes, he loved the wet hair at her temples, he loved the smell of her head under his nose, he loved the warmth of her body, which seeped into his. He didn’t think what it meant, only that he loved every part of her.
* * *
Tuesday morning, seven o’clock. Blue sky, brisk fall breeze. He was pushing it this time. But he was only out for a walk, and to show he had nothing to hide, he strode in through the front door at Clara’s and let the screen door slap shut behind him.
Effie appeared at the archway to the kitchen, holding a spatula. “There you are,” she said, frowning. She was dressed already, bright and clean. Before now she hadn’t risen until nine, but she was feeling better, clearly. “Lord, Henry, how early do you get up for these walks of yours?”
It was this damned insomnia, he explained. He came over to her and kissed her head, felt suddenly wretched. “I was up and down all night.”
She didn’t seem satisfied. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t know. I get this way sometimes.”
If she suspected he was up to something, she said nothing about it. And it amazed him, because he felt like he was saturated with guilt, that it gave off a feral smell. But if you aren’t looking for signs, he supposed, you are blind to them. She was making eggs, she said, if he wanted any. He did—and coffee, he was dying for coffee. He joined her in the kitchen, and while she finished the eggs and he made the coffee, he worried about Alma coming in, whether Effie would hear her, whether it would be enough for her to suspect. But then, from the stereo in the den, the sunny opening of Beethoven’s “Pastoral” began, and a moment later Max strode in, singing, “Good morning, friends!”
There was music all morning. Beethoven, Strauss, Bedřich Smetana, the heavenly “Vltava.” Henry dozed to it out on the patio. “Poor baby,” Effie said, running her fingers through his hair. Max and Clara had decided, apparently, to take a break from work today. Max set himself to cleaning the pool, and as soon as he’d cleared the leaves from the surface he dove in, and Clara and Effie dove in after him, though the water was still green and full of who-knew-what. As if from a great distance, half asleep, Henry watched them splashing around, taking turns at the diving board, playing a game of Marco Polo. At some point he drifted off, behind a wall of light, their voices reaching him, the sighing of the trees overhead.
Now Alma appeared, finally—he didn’t know what time it was—pirouetting out onto the
patio to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” wearing white shorts and a striped T-shirt. The shorts made her legs look extra-long, like the little ice nymphs in Fantasia. She smiled at him. He smiled dreamily back.
“You’re perky today,” Clara said to her.
Max suggested they sail all the way to Atlantic City—it would take, what, two or three hours?—but the water was choppy, and they turned back to Cape May after an hour.
That evening, after grilled hamburgers and baked potatoes, while they played Max’s dice game out on the patio, Effie pressed her hand between Henry’s legs, where no one could see, and leaned into him and kissed him on the neck. Alma, across the table, met his eyes. What could he do? He pulled Effie’s hand away and muttered into her ear, “Hey, now.”
“What?” she said.
He kissed her temple. “Save that for later.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
A little later, after ten, Alma went away.
And then it was eleven, and midnight, and one in the morning. Henry watched the clock over the bar. He nursed his drink, trying to stay alert. The rest of them got drunk.
They were playing Kings Cup, a drinking game with a deck of cards. It was Effie’s idea, a game they’d played in high school, when they could get their hands on beer. Every card drawn had a rule to it—“two is you,” “three is me,” “five up high,” “queens are girls.” They made up most of the rules. If you drew an ace, you had to remove a piece of clothing. Max had come up with this one—and then drew the first ace. But he was only wearing trunks. Effie found this unbearably funny. Clara handed him the afghan, and he draped it over his lap and pulled his trunks off and tossed them to the rug. Effie drew the next one, and removed her engagement ring. (“Sorry, boo,” she said.) There was some debate about whether it counted, but then, later, she drew the next one too, cried, “No!” and, laughing, facing away from them, removed her panties, held them up so Max and Clara could see—Henry laughed uncomfortably, unsure how he felt about this—and tossed them onto the sofa. When Clara drew the last one, she took her sundress off entirely and played the rest of the game in her underwear. She sat to Henry’s right, her legs tucked under her, vast and white and soft as dough, and it was all he could do not to gape at her. He was distracted, he was hot and bothered, getting tipsy in spite of his best efforts, feeling more panicked with every minute that Alma waited for him, wishing at the same time that there was another ace and that Clara would draw it. Desire engendered desire. He wanted to fuck everyone. He was going mad.
Finally it was over, and he led Effie, stumbling drunk, her panties in her fist, up to their bed, where she fell on him in the dark, smothering him, clawing at him, pulling at his shorts. She’d never been this way before. They hadn’t made love in almost a week. She felt soft and round and tender, and he sank into her, and the orgasm was like the sun breaking through clouds.
She groaned into his neck. “That was nice,” she said. And then she was asleep.
The house was dark and quiet. He should have been half dead, but he was wide-awake. It was almost three in the morning. Alma was waiting.
Outside at last, in the black of a cloudy night, he ran down New Hampshire Avenue.
She was up on a footstool in the living room, looking at a row of ivory figures on a high shelf: a devil, a big-breasted woman, a tiger. She didn’t acknowledge him when he entered. “Alma—God, Alma, finally. I couldn’t get away. It was torture.” He ran his hands up her legs and pressed his face to the back of her shorts. “I got here as soon as I could.” He reached around to unbutton and unzip them but she stopped him, stepped down from the footstool, and turned to him.
“You were with her tonight, weren’t you?” she said.
He’d been too late this time—he knew it. “I was with all of them,” he said. “We were playing a stupid card game.”
“I mean her—Effie. You were with her before you came here.”
It was the first time she’d spoken her name. She didn’t wait for him to answer. She crossed over to the bar, where, unlike her, she had poured herself a glass of scotch. “Alma,” he said, going to her. “Alma, what’s wrong?”
“Do you do it every night?”
“No,” he said, reaching for her, but she backed away. “No, I swear. Tonight was the first. I couldn’t—”
“I knew it.” She laughed and turned away from him, set her glass down and went toward the sofa. “No wonder you’re so late. You fucked her. And now you expect to fuck me. Two girls in one night. You’re drowning in pussy, aren’t you?”
“What am I supposed to do? She’s my wife, for Christ’s sake. I can’t turn her away.”
“Yes, you can.” She laughed again. “Did you even wash yourself before you came over here?”
He didn’t know what to say. Why was she being this way? He went to her and grabbed her arms. “I came here as fast as I could. I only want you. You’re all I can think about. I love you.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“What? I want you. Only you.”
“I mean,” she said, “what are you going to do? What is this? Are you going to leave her?”
The question floored him. He let her go, stepped back. Of course he wasn’t going to leave her. The thought had never entered his mind. But no other thought had entered his mind either, except to be alone with Alma, to touch her, to have her. The future had not been a consideration. That she was thinking about it astounded him. “I don’t know,” he said.
She stood looking at him with her arms crossed, waiting for him to say more.
“I don’t know anything,” he said. “I only know I want you.”
“You can’t have everything. You can’t have this for free. You have to give me something.”
“What can I give you? What do you want? I’ll give you anything.” He knew this wasn’t true. He was being reckless.
“Just don’t be with her,” she said. “If you’re with me, don’t be with her too.”
“How can I do that?”
“I don’t know. Say you’re sick. Say you’re not in the mood. Just don’t be with her.”
“Alma, you have to be reasonable…”
“Don’t be with her, Henry, or else don’t touch me again. You were fawning over each other today—right in front of me, mocking me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You were. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? It drove me crazy, Henry. And then I have to sit here for four hours and imagine you fucking her, and I can’t stand it. You’re mine. Right now, you’re mine, Henry. You’re not hers.”
To his amazement, there were tears in her eyes. He was gobsmacked. It took him a moment to collect himself. “Are you asking me to leave her?”
She wiped her eyes with a finger. “No,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m crazy—I know I am.”
A wave of tenderness spread through him. He took hold of her arms. “Alma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you.” He ran his hand over her hair. “I won’t be with her,” he said, not thinking of what he was saying, nevertheless sincere, “I won’t be with her. It’s just you, it’s only you. Alma, I love you.” He pulled her to him and kissed her, until eventually she uncrossed her arms and held him. “I love you,” he said again, “I love you,” and then: “Alma, do you hear? Do you love me too?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Tell me.”
“I love you.”
“Tell me again.”
“I love you, Henry.”
At dawn they lay up in the tower, on the floor beside a small bed, on a quilted rug made of random colorful scraps of fabric in no discernible pattern. A floor lamp shone down on them. They’d spent most of the night talking, lying against each other, caressing each other. She told him she’d wanted him since the first day out on the boat, when she’d seen him with his shirt off, his muscles that had come, she knew, from good hard work. And when he spoke, tha
t accent—it made her melt inside. She could imagine a home with him somewhere, his voice always reassuring her. He’d wanted her that day too, he said, when she stripped to her bathing suit and lay on the deck, and all that evening he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her. She knew he was looking at her, she said, she’d always angle herself so he could easily see her legs, her ass—he knew it, he said—and after the night they’d stayed up together talking, she said, she knew she would have him. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he said. “I’m on my honeymoon, you know. I’d have to be a horrible man…” “I’m not usually so sure,” she said. “But with you, I knew. Like it was fate.” They talked about what it would be like if they ran away together, and where they would go. Everywhere. To Hawaii, to South Africa, to India, to Papua New Guinea. She needed the sea. He loved the sea too. Max would give her money—she could get it out of him. They wouldn’t have to work. They would just eat and drink, fuck and sleep. And then they’d settle down somewhere, somewhere pretty and safe. They weren’t talking seriously—he didn’t think they were—it was just idle, but still the subject thrilled him. “I wish,” he said. “I wish I could.” She said nothing.
She was curled between his legs, resting her head on his thigh, running her finger up and down his penis, bringing it back to life, until it was taut and smooth. She touched a sore spot—he winced—and she apologized. He showed her where: a little raw patch. She inspected it closely, and kissed it. She caressed his testicles. He told her about the root of the word: testify. She laughed, lifted them gently to her nose, and breathed in. They smelled like pancake batter, she said.