‘Okay, which act and scene, quickly now for $100.’
‘Act IV, Scene I, where’s my hundred?’ I held my hand out.
‘Not so fast, lady. I have to check your answer.’ And he reached in the drawer for Gideon’s Bible which made me laugh harder.
‘No, not in that. Shakespeare, not Solomon. Don’t you trust me?’
‘Who trusts women nowadays with bra burners and petitions and all?’ There was a mighty sharp edge to his voice and I know it stopped my laughter. He was immediately contrite, clasping my still out-stretched hand in both his. ‘No, I trust you, Jenny. Yes, by God, I do!’ He kissed my hand, first on the back and then, turning it over, in the palm in such a lovely fashion that it awoke an instant response in me. ‘“There’s a time and tide in the affairs of man . . .”’ His wry smile and the faint emphasis on ‘affairs’ made me chuckle.
‘You’re incorrigible and grossly incorrect . . .’
‘As usual. Shut up and kiss me, woman!’
I did, since I had no option, being crushed against him in a fashion reminiscent of the swashbuckling antics of Douglas Fairbanks as a Corsican brother. I don’t honestly think he intended to make love to me then: he was still distracted by his encounter with old Hearty. And I wasn’t randy after last night.
The moment he began kissing me, I kissed him back and the contact was as charged as it had been the previous evening. He broke off, searching my face but he was too close for me to see anything except the intense gleam in his eyes.
‘I’m being greedy, Jenny, but Christ, do I need you! May I?’
‘Of course.’
Many years before, when Ray and I were first married, I had read an article by a committee of Quakers on extramarital sex. They had decided that it could be morally wrong to deny a man the solace of intercourse, which, in their estimation, was as much a necessity to man, and woman, as water, food and shelter. They by no means condoned promiscuity or seduction but, between consenting adults, extramarital sex was permissible.
Dan-man needed me as a woman. And I rejoiced that he used me and experienced relief, gripping my arms so tightly in his climax that I suspected I’d have bruises by morning. He collapsed against me suddenly and by the evenness of his breathing, I knew he was asleep. I consoled myself with the rationalization that I had done my duty as woman all too thoroughly. I was bloody wide-awake with some 200 pounds of immovable man squooshing me into the mattress. We hadn’t turned off the TV so I watched a second showing of Gunga Din, the late news which added horror tales to the earlier version of people stranded in cars in snow drifts, of houses without food, water, electricity, special patrols snowshoeing to the rescue and scenes of snowdrifted deserted city streets and facilities, like the Denver airport. Baby, it was cold outside!
The announcer was just giving me the glad word about the late show, a trite situation comedy from the frothy pre-war years, when Dan stirred, rolled off me and flopped on his right side, arms dangling over the edge of the bed. I slipped out, turned off the TV, got to the bathroom, put on my nightgown, got back into bed, turned off the light and hoped that I, too, could fall asleep, my virtues being my reward.
I think it was the snow pelting the windows which soothed me to rest. It wasn’t my thoughts or my unslaked emotions.
6
I WASN’T SO deeply asleep that I didn’t feel Dan move: he tried to be considerate and if I’d been really down for the count, I wouldn’t have roused.
‘Go back to sleep, Jenny,’ he said, patting my shoulder gently.
‘There’s roast beef sandwiches on the desk,’ I said in a mumble.
‘How’d you know I’d be hungry?’
‘Page from your book. Plan ahead!’ I flipped over and saw him pulling on his pants in the dark room. He moved to the desk.
‘You’re a doll. Want one?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. And there might be coffee in the machines by the ice-maker.’
‘By God, there might. Want some?’
‘Hmmmm.’ I was hungry too, and blessed my plan-aheadability, though I hadn’t envisioned a snack at whatever ungodly hour this was. He slipped out the door and the light from the corridor was enough to illuminate my watch dial. Four-thirty? Oh, well. He was back with two containers of coffee.
‘It’s black. They’ve run out of sugar and cream. But the night watchman told me there isn’t even coffee on some of the floors.’
‘Good Lord and the hotel’s chockablock.’
‘I gather a convoy will make it to our relief in the morning . . . this morning.’
‘Ah, fair enough!’
We finished our snack companionably in the dark. He disposed of the sandwich wrappings and the containers, undressed and got back under the covers. He turned to me, pulling me close to him, settling me beside him. I was quite willing that he go back to sleep and therefore was pleased when his free hand began to explore my body gently, rousing responses I thought dampened.
‘Your turn now, Jenny,’ he said, his voice rippling with amusement and he held me closer when I started to protest. ‘Turnabout’s fair play, woman, and you’re so damned responsive, it’s a pleasure. Now relax and enjoy. This rape is inevitable!’
I obeyed and enjoyed it far more than I had reason to think I could or would. Or should.
After Raymond died, at first I had neither the time, inclination or opportunity to play around. Then I’d had a summer love affair with a graduate student when I was studying for my doctoral thesis but it was only a summer fling. I’d had two entanglements of some duration and once thought of remarrying but time had proved the wisdom in my hesitation. I’d learned an important lesson: it takes time to become lovers, to adapt to the requirements of another man, to forget instinctive responses learned in another bed. It amazed me that there was so little adjustment to make with Dan: he was unlike any previous lover, yet we fit. Chemistry, I suppose, and the rightness of timing and the fitness of opportunity. There was no impediment to my enjoyment of this brief encounter.
I woke the next morning about ten o’clock, completely refreshed, with a terrific sense of wellbeing. The space beside me was empty but I heard splashings through the partly closed connecting doors. I got up, washed and pondered getting directly into my bathing suit. I’d the hair appointment at 12 but the swimming had been such a pleasure . . .
‘Hey, don’t dress, Jenny. Ah, you didn’t,’ Dan said, peering around his bathroom door.
‘Damn right. I want my swim.’
‘Then your steak. The supply wagon got through the pass at dawn,’ he added in a cowboy twang. ‘And I think,’ he said in a normal voice, ‘the snow is beginning to let up. The wind is down.’
I glanced at the window and saw the lazy fall of flakes. Regret was uppermost in my mind but a twitch of urgency nagged. I did have that evening roundtable discussion in Portland tomorrow and since this was my first lecture for them, come hell, highwater and drifting snow, I wanted to make the date on time.
We had our swim in the empty pool. I did twenty laps before I started puffing in earnest and held on to the side of the pool while Dan did three more, pleased with himself when he came to rest beside me, breathing deeply but without strain.
‘I must try to swim more often,’ he said. ‘Most hotels have pools the world round.’
‘You travel a lot?’
‘Too much.’
We heard the sudden explosion of children into the pool foyer and on cue hauled ourselves out.
‘Steak next, Jenny.’
‘I’ve got to get my hair done, first, please?’
‘Good, then I’ll do my business now. When’ll you be finished?’
‘Say, one-thirty.’
‘One-thirty in the steak room!’
A neatly coiffed head is an ego boost, a shield against the outrages of fortune and competition, as a variety of psychological aid. I had made that appointment initially for publicity purposes: now it was far more important to me to look my best for Dan.
I
was finished earlier than I’d anticipated so I hurried back to my room to change into the less casual grey slacksuit. The red message light was glowing in the room. And the airlines, damn ’em, were happy to inform me that I could continue my interrupted flight to Portland at 3:40.
When I replaced the receiver, more than the red light went out. I sat staring at the goddamned thing, wishing I hadn’t come back to the room, willing the blizzard to give one last gasp at keeping me in Denver. I don’t know how long I sat there until I woke to the fact that I would be late for my lunch. And that would now be all I’d have of this so pleasant, so unexpected, so damned brief an encounter.
‘Well, you twit, it was bloody more than you thought you’d have.’
I dressed quickly but without any anticipatory exhilaration. I did my face carefully, shielding myself and my tender sensibilities behind a cosmetic mask.
‘What time’s your flight, Jenny?’ he asked, as he stood aside to let me take the inner banquet seat.
So much for my bright smile and insouciance.
‘Three-forty.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s enjoy our steaks.’ His hand grasped mine firmly under the table and I looked directly into his face.
I told myself first that while his mouth was smiling, there did seem to be a hint of regret in his eyes: no sign of twinkle, no diffidence. The pressure of his hand reaffirmed that he, too, found the ending a bit too abrupt.
‘I like the way they did your hair; it’s becoming,’ he said and glanced down at my suit. ‘Good English flannel?’
‘I think so, but an Irish tailor.’
His raised eyebrows expressed surprise at such style.
‘We’re fairly cosmopolitan in Dublin, you know. Not all culchies.’
‘Culchies?’
‘Hicks.’
‘Oh!’
We made desultory conversation until the waiter came for our orders. I had to approve Dan’s lead, to talk of everyday inconsequentialities. The magic was trickling back into the djinn’s bottle, along with the end of season blizzard. Each of us had to go back to being what we really were, instead of what we had briefly been: lovers. Sic transit!
The steaks were good and our conversation righted itself, wondering whether these steaks were the last in the hotel freezer or the first of the newly delivered. I wanted the lunch to go on forever so I insisted on lemon meringue pie and coffee. I almost burned my mouth trying to drink the coffee hot because I needed the privacy of my room to recover from painful things, like Dan’s presence.
‘Have you packed?’ Dan asked, as if he too felt the same ambiguous pulls.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, blotting my lips, nervously anxious to leave, desperate to hold him by me.
‘There’s time enough, don’t worry,’ he said, with a shadow of his wry grin. He caught my hand, not letting me go. ‘My flight’s at 4. I’ll come with you.’
The lump in my throat was so ruddy big that I couldn’t have said anything, even if I had had a wit left, on that eternally short elevator ascent. There were others in the car, all chattering about leaving and moaning about those who’d been waiting to meet them at various airports. We were, again, what we actually were, strangers in transit, up and down now, instead of east and west.
As we strode along the corridor to our rooms, we still said nothing. I could have wished he’d hold my hand but I was glad he didn’t. He grinned at me as we went through the business of unlocking our doors. His closed the same instant mine did and I leaned against it, eyes on the connecting door, no longer ajar.
I told myself to get together, took a deep breath and began to pack. I threw in a lot of the hotel’s dividends, match-books, wrapped soap, packaged shower caps, stationery, postcards, the room service menu — mementi memoriae. I fanned out the pink deck of cards nostalgically and then tucked it carefully into my handbag. I closed the case, arranged my cloak on the bed and then checked the bathroom and all the drawers as well as the closet in case I had overlooked anything.
I threw my cloak loosely over my shoulders, hefted my case in one hand, purse and knitting bag in the other, attaché case under my arm and without a sentimental backward look, opened the hall door.
‘Need a bellhop, miss?’ He was there, propping up the door frame, one eyebrow cocked and a humorous grin on his face.
Thank God! If he’d shown any other facet of his personality, I’d have turned soupy.
‘I really must commend the manager on the alertness of his staff.’
The trip down in the elevator was considerably less traumatic: my upper lip had stiffened. In the lobby, I turned towards the desk to settle whatever there was on the bill.
‘Transport’s this way,’ Dan said, inclining his head to our right. I could see one of those elongated airport limousines at the entrance.
‘My bill?’
‘That’s all on the airlines.’
‘All of it?’ I thought of the room service.
‘I checked.’ He sounded so positive that I let the matter ride. ‘And if you volunteer to pay the room service you can find another bellhop.’
I demurred and he hurried me out to the limousine. We sat companionably close, even our legs touching during the short drive to the terminal. The snowplows must have done yeoman service to open two narrow passages on the four lane roads but the snow had dwindled to gentle flakings so that the whole snowbound panorama was visible. Denver had really been dumped on.
‘You’re flying United to Portland?’ he asked, as we threaded our way into the main lobby. ‘This way.’
He dropped my case at the appropriate window and then gestured that he was going to the Delta slot.
My ticket was validated and I was told that I’d be boarding in ten minutes at Gate 5. As I turned away from the counter, Dan joined me. He had two ticket folders in his hand but I didn’t think much about it then.
‘You don’t leave until 4?’ I asked to ease the constraint between us.
He shook his head, peering past me towards the busy entrance and then up at the clock. ‘Which gate?’
‘Five.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ and with a touch of his usual fun, ‘and vouch that we didn’t spend the blizzard making knitting needle bombs.’
‘We were more practical than that!’
Our eyes caught and we laughed.
‘Make love, not war!’
‘Hallelujah . . .’
‘Amen, brother.’
That was just the right note to take as we strolled towards the security check, our arms linked. We paused before the security arch, to let others through. I felt suddenly awkward, impatient, restless and I turned to Dan. My smile faded because he wasn’t wearing one. He took my hand in both his, caressing it. He wasn’t looking at me, but at my hand.
‘Jenny . . .’ His name for me came out in a rush. ‘Jenny, don’t drop any stitches!’ He gave my hand a fierce pressure before he turned and walked quickly away, without a backward look. Me? I almost collided with the security arch, trying to get through it. I don’t remember boarding the plane. I was sitting, looking dumbly out the window at the occasional snow flakes when my seatmate nudged me to put on my safety belt. I thanked the man and belted up, trying not to look out the window at snowbound Denver.
Above the clouds at something like 37,000 feet (I remember the captain announced the height), the sun was achingly brilliant after three days of storm greyness. Our flying time to Portland was two hours and some minutes.
To try and pin conscious thought on some occupation, I took out my diary, to bring it up to date.
I did so, reducing to spare entries of time, place and activity the most romantic interlude of my 47 years. ‘Hike with DJL; very cold, hard to walk far or long. Quiet dinner with DJL’ ‘Swim/DJL: hair appointment, 12. Lunch DJL 1:30’: just as if he had been any professional contact or business friend.
7
PORTLAND WAS GREEN. After four years in Ireland, I had forgotten how brown grass become
s in winter in the northern half of the States. It is depressing: more depressing than the somewhat grey ‘soft’ winter days of Ireland for there the grass, being green, has a brilliance all its own, as if recalling the warmth of the sun in the grey weather. I’d prefer Ireland at its green dreariest, to the States in brown winter death.
The Portland airport was compact and new, alongside the Columbia River. The view of Mount Hood and the Three Sisters as we banked to land was spectacular enough to bring me out of my temporary mental funk. Organizing myself and getting to the motel completed the process. The motel was mock Far Eastern Japanesy type, dark wood, monolithic style, and full. However, it was modern, convenient, comfortable and reassuringly anonymous. I had a drink with my dinner of Pacific crab which were much sharper in taste than East Coast shellfish. I sat and watched the river swirling in the change of tide — idling in body and mind. I took a couple of sleeping pills and conked out for a night of non-tossing and not much rest.
Taking myself firmly in hand again the next morning, I phoned Mr. Porter at Portland State University. He was delighted to hear that I had emerged from the blizzard-bound midwest. They had seriously wondered whether I’d make the engagement. I affected surprise that they could doubt my ability to overcome a minor obstacle. I was scheduled to do a lecture, two roundtable discussions on writing for young adults, and to address a group of city librarians on the changing styles in children’s reading. The only thing that had really changed was the availability of what children prefer to read rather than what adults think they should be reading, to improve their little minds. I happened to write what they wanted to read: fantastical adventures with (to adults) incredible creatures with magical powers.
Often, as I addressed my skeptical adult audiences, I wondered if they had had any childhoods at all; they didn’t seem to have enjoyed them. Probably not. If they’d been old enough to have lived through the depression, their childhoods must have been bleak. Young enough to have lived through the second world war, they’d have another set of influences to drive them.
My editors had remarked that my ability to ‘think’ as a child, a contemporary child, was what made my books so popular. Perhaps. I gave full marks to my son, Timothy. After all, it had been Tim, telling me stories at his bedtime (his earliest tales stemming from a subconscious realization that his father was dying) which had started me on my career. Critics and child psychologists might suggest different rationales but I was there. And I diverted my anguish over Raymond’s lingering death into jotting down Timmy’s delightful bedtime yarns. Ray had enjoyed them, too, because I got into the habit of taping them rather than lose some of Tim’s quaint phrasing in the retelling.
Stitch In Snow Page 7