“Please, Kate,” he whispered, “relax and let me touch you. I want us to reach a climax together. Tell me when you’re ready.”
We embraced and David buried his face in my hair. He cried out “oh Kate,” with a moan that was muffled by the pillow, whether from ecstasy or despair I wasn’t sure. I felt like I was surfing the crest of an unending wave. I pulled him tightly to me and we made love twice more without parting before sinking back, wet and exhausted, upon the sheets.
In the middle of the night we awakened again. I don’t know which of us touched the other first; a simultaneous urge made us grope for one another in the dark. We made love drowsily, languorous as a pair of sloths, until the knife-edge of desire blurred once more into sleep.
When I awakened, sunshine was streaming through the curtains and I was alone in bed. I listened for sounds from the bathroom and, hearing nothing, I sat up. David’s jacket and coat were lying on a chair, but his other clothes were missing. “David?” A key rattled in the door and he entered, carrying a brown plastic tray with a carafe of coffee and two cups. Almost instinctively, I pulled the bed sheet up to my shoulders. David’s eyes caught mine and he smiled.
Still holding the tray, he closed his eyes, and sniffed loudly. “Ummm.”
“What do you smell?”
“Sex.”
“Sex?”
“Sex.Or in scientific terms, semen, sweat and vaginal secretions. You and me. Memento of a glorious night in bed.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“That’s because you’re immersed in it; I just came from the fresh air outdoors. The scent’s an aphrodisiac. I think we should bottle and sell it as the antidote to war. One whiff and people will be so busy screwing like rabbits, they won’t have time to fight.”
“If you’re not awarded a Nobel for your scientific accomplishments, you’ll still win one for peace.”
“My thoughts, exactly; a joint prize, like the Curies’.”
He laid the tray on the table. “We’ve availed ourselves of the tub, the absence of TV and”, he grinned broadly, “the double bed. I thought it was about time for the coffee.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“Seven! It’s the middle of the night!” I groaned and slipped under the covers, burying my head.
David pulled at the blankets and I pulled back. “¡Dormilona! Come on, up, up! ‘morning’s at seven, the hillside’s dew pearled, the lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn, God’s in his heaven and …’”
“I’m tired!” I uncovered my face and stuck my tongue out at him. We laughed and I sat up again, still clutching the sheet. David poured the coffee and handed me a cup.
“You’re looking very fit this morning, Leopold David Rosenau.”
“I’m feeling exceptionally fit, thank you, well rested. And you?”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I answered with a giggle.
“Are you … all right?”
“I’m fine … a little sore.” Actually, I was very sore, but I didn’t want to tell him.
“How about this? Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while and I’ll sit in bed and read the paper?” He draped his trousers over a chair, propped his pillow against the headboard, and got into bed beside me in his sport shirt and underpants.
I pretended to be asleep for a couple of minutes while I watched him through my eyelashes. “I forgot to bring a tape measure!” I exclaimed suddenly.
David looked up from his paper. “What for?”
“There’s some peasant community in Europe – in Czechoslovakia I think – where the mother measures the bride’s neck on her wedding night and again in the morning. If the girl’s had an orgasm, her neck gets larger.”
David exploded with laughter. “Where do you get all this stuff? I swear you’re making half of it up.”
“I’m not either,” I replied with mock indignation.
“At least you’ve answered one of my questions.” David looked pleased. “How many times?”
“You know how terrible I am at math. I can’t count that high. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Oh, I had a sneaking suspicion. Either that or you’re a consummate actress.”
I moved my hand along David’s chest and started to unbutton his shirt.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Making you comfortable.”
He gave me a long look. “I always wondered what would happen if a satyr met a nymph. I believe I’m finding out.”
I propped myself up on one elbow and cradled my chin in my hand. “I want to ask you something. Seriously. After the first time were you doing it because you felt you had to prove something to me, I mean because of your age? I love teasing you, but I’ll stop if you’re doing this out a sense of obligation to me or because you think I’m expecting it or… ”
“I’m not trying to prove anything to you. One can’t will these things you know. If that were possible, there wouldn’t be any impotent men. I feel … like someone who’s dying of thirst in the desert when out of nowhere he stumbles upon an oasis.” David rolled up the newspaper, flung it gaily across the room and turned to me with a smile. “I’m thirsty again.” He hooked his index finger over the top of the sheet I was still holding up to my chin and started to pull it down.
After months of a chaste courtship – if it could be called that - David’s uninhibited sexuality took me by surprise and I wasn’t sure how to react. “I’m so flat-chested ….”
David lowered the sheet and pressed me back against the bed. “I adore your firm little breasts.” He nuzzled my armpit, caressed my nipples with his tongue, and covered me with kisses. “Can you tell the effect they have on me?”
Feeling his bulging erection, I realized that women’s magazines were right when they said large breasts aren’t everything.
We were still asleep when a maid knocked on the door at eleven. David showered hastily, and by the time I was out of the tub, I found him already dressed and straightening the bed. He picked up the bloodstained towel he’d spread over the sheet the night before, looked at me sadly, without smiling, and carried the towel to the bathroom. I heard him running water in the sink.
We ate a late breakfast at Manning's Café, near the university – eggs, bacon, hash-browned potatoes, toast and – for me - a piece of banana cream pie. David winced at the idea of dessert, but I was ravenous and still at the age when I could eat sweets with impunity.
“Don’t turn around now,” David cautioned as I smothered my toast with strawberry jam, “but there’s a man near the cash register who keeps staring at us, about 30, dark hair, olive complexion, glasses. Do you know him?”
I turned my head slightly and searched for the man out of the corner of my eye. “It’s Mr. Maldonado, the Spanish professor I had last quarter.”
“He’s leaving,” David said in a low voice.
Maldonado crossed the room to where we were sitting. Feeling embarrassed to be seen eating breakfast with David, I didn’t look up. He passed by our table and paused for a moment before going to the exit.
“What a queer duck!” David exclaimed. “He stared at you for at least three seconds; I wonder why he didn’t stop and say hello?”
“He probably wasn’t real; it was the personification of my conscience, like the cricket in Pinocchio.”
“This is real enough, though. Is he CEM?” asked David, taking a card from his jacket pocket.
“The postcard! You got it! Did he write anything besides my grade?”
David handed me the card. On the long axis of the postcard to David, and with the same ink he’d used to decorate mine, Mr. Maldonado had drawn a huge red ‘A’ at least four inches high, bordered with small black hatch-marks along the edges of the letter.
“What on earth is that supposed to mean? Here’s the one he sent me; it’s straightforward enough.”
David read my card without smiling and looked at the postmark. “He maile
d mine three days after yours; that’s strange.” He turned the cards over and his expression hardened.
“Do you have any classes with him winter quarter?”
“No, I have Dr. García for Latin American poetry. You noticed something about the cards, what is it?”
“If this is his idea of a joke, I’m not amused. Look at your card. He wrote the grade as an ‘A’ plus. Now look at mine. The grade is an ‘A’ without the ‘plus’, a big, fat red ‘A’ with little marks along the edge that appear to represent sewing or embroidery. What does that suggest to you?”
A chill passed through me. “A scarlet letter, ‘A’ for adultery.”
“Exactly. That accounts for why he sent my card a few days after yours; since you addressed mine to the biochemistry department, he knows I’m on the staff. Your Mr. Maldonado must have been doing a little checking up on me.”
I sat staring at the postcards, too stunned to speak. “But why? Is this some kind of blackmail, or what?”
“I doubt it. Your first guess was probably spot on, but he’s no phantom, and he’s addressing his message to me, not to you. I think he’s warning me off. What do you know about him?”
“Not a great deal; Maldonado’s a Ph.D. candidate from some school in the Midwest, the University of Chicago, I think. He’s been here for a couple of years while he writes his dissertation, sort of like Frank’s position in your department except he has the title of Instructor. Last quarter I had him for Spanish 304; he’s an excellent teacher, very funny and super-conscientious. Right before finals, he gave us a Christmas party. He brought in cookies, cake, punch and his own record of Spanish Christmas carols, and went to the trouble of transcribing the words of the songs and mimeographing them so everyone could have a copy. Then, after he’d gone to all this work, when the students realized they weren’t having a regular class, most of them just grabbed the refreshments and walked out. I stayed afterwards to help him clean up.” My voice broke. “I felt terrible for him. I think he’s the kind of person who can’t take rejection. He seems … so vulnerable.”
David’s face softened. “I’m sure he must have been deeply hurt. Is he married?”
I shook my head. “He’s Norma’s faculty advisor.”
“Is there anything between them?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Is he Spanish?”
“No, he’s an American.”
David read my card again. “Does he always call you ‘Catarinita’?”
“He never calls me Catarinita. He always addresses me as Señorita Collins. No, wait. About a week ago I was in Denny and I saw him in the hall. He was standing talking to a couple of other professors, I didn’t pay any attention to who they were … and just as I passed him, Mr. Maldonado said ‘Catarina’s such a pretty girl.’ Right out loud. It was such a bizarre remark – it was almost like he was talking to himself. David! Could he be infatuated with me?”
David shrugged. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Another thing - it just occurred to me; several times when you and I’ve been at the HUB having coffee together, I noticed Mr. Maldonado there too, and he was looking at us – maybe watching us is a better word. At the time it didn’t strike me, but now … should I tell Norma about the postcards?”
“No, don’t mention them. What’s the point; you won’t be seeing him again, anyway.”
“But the party! Norma’s party! I forgot to tell you. I received a letter from her when I was home and she’s having the housewarming this Saturday the 12th. Norma’s sure to invite Maldonado.”
“How jolly. Well, I’ll be damned if I’ll let that poor devil intimidate me.”
Chapter 13
Blaine Hall, Room B102
University of Washington, Seattle
Jan. 9, 1957
Dear Mother and Daddy,
Another quarter – seven down and five to go. Norma’s all moved
in to her new apartment now; I went over there Monday night and
we prepared a Mexican dinner together. She’s done wonders with
the place over Christmas vacation, painting thrift shop furniture
(gilt paint - looks better than it sounds), upholstering, and sewing
(pink curtains with gold tassels – ditto remark as above), to achieve a
sort of Renaissance look.
This Saturday she’s having a house warming. The professor I
had last quarter for Spanish 304 offered to give me a ride to the party.
I think I’ve mentioned him before – his name is Corrado Maldonado –
he’s about 30, at least six feet tall (almost as tall as Dr. Rosenau),
with ramrod-straight posture like a flamenco dancer’s. Maldonado
speaks Castilian Spanish (as opposed to the Latin American variety),
and even his English has a slight lisping quality to it. I’m not quite
sure if he meant that I was to go as his date, or what, but I already had
transportation, so I thanked him and said no…
David drove me to the residence hall and I checked in for winter quarter. The housemother allowed men in the rooms during check-in – and only during check-in - since she took it for granted we girls needed fathers and brothers to help with the luggage. David carried my suitcase upstairs.
“So this is where you live, “he said, sitting down in my armchair; “What a lot of books. You never told me you have an El Greco on the wall.”
The thunderclouds hanging over the city in El Greco’s View of Toledo mirrored my mood. Without a word, I sat in David’s lap and drew my feet under me. “Poor baby,” he said, patting me consolingly, “it’s been quite a weekend for you, hasn’t it?" I fell asleep in his arms and the sun was nearly down when he awakened me. “Kate,” he said gently, “it’s after five. I have to be going.”
“Did you ever read Mary Poppins when you were a boy?”
“When I was a boy, dear, Mary Poppins hadn’t been written.”
“There’s one chapter I remember particularly. It’s about the time she takes Barbara and Michael to visit a friend of hers on his birthday. They start laughing so much they fill up with laughing gas and go bobbing up to the ceiling. Her friend tells them they’ll stay up there forever until one of them has a sad thought, but they’re all laughing so hard that everything they think of is hilarious. Finally, Mary Poppins says ‘it’s time to go home’ and they all float down to the floor. That’s how I feel whenever we say goodbye, sad and deflated. I know we can see each other tomorrow, or go sailing on Saturday, and it’s not like I’m afraid you’re going to die or anything morbid’s going to happen. I can’t explain it; I’m just terribly depressed, as though my life is ending and won’t resume until I see you again. That’s neurotic, isn’t it? Maybe the term being ‘crazy’ about someone has a scientific basis.”
We sat together in the twilight. “While you were sleeping I was watching the sunlight fade on your picture. It’s strange how certain buildings stand out to the end, just as they do in real life. Have you seen the original?”
“When I went to Spain I looked for the painting in the Prado, but it’s in the Metropolitan, in New York.”
He sighed. “Perhaps some day we can visit those museums together. Well, it’s time you were getting off my lap, young lady. I think my legs have atrophied for lack of circulation.”
I smiled at his pleasantry. I wasn’t going to let me see me break down, regardless of how depressed I felt.
“May I leave my cans of paint, fenders, etcetera here until Saturday?”
I nodded and slipped my hand into his. We embraced and my resolve disappeared in a torrent of tears. “Please, David, stay a little longer.”
“I can’t.” He held me away from him with his hands on my arms. “I hate to leave you like this, crying, but if I postpone going for another half hour it won’t be any easier then. I know you’ve had an emotional 24 hours, dear, really I do understand, but I must go.” He kissed me on the fore
head and left.
Tuesday afternoon I was walking out of Dr. Garcia’s Latin American poetry class in Denny Hall when I saw Mr. Maldonado standing outside the door, holding a brown paper bag in his hand. He didn’t notice me immediately and I thought briefly of pretending I hadn’t seen him; I was in a hurry to attend an anthropology seminar on the top floor of Thomson Hall and had less than ten minutes to make it.
My conscience got the better of me. “Buenas tardes, Señor Maldonado.”
“Catarina. I … I was hoping to find you here. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I thought of the Scarlet Letter and regretted speaking to him. “I have a class at three, but …yes.” Standing next to Mr. Maldonado I saw that behind the thick glasses his right eye was slightly misaligned; despite this defect, he was a good looking man.
“I wanted to thank you for helping me clean up after the Christmas party. You left so quickly I didn’t have a chance.”
“You’re very welcome … it was nice of you … I enjoyed the music so much; in fact I tried to buy the album in Ogden over Christmas vacation, but the record store didn’t carry it.”
“Yes, I noticed you jotted down the name. I’m glad you couldn’t find it, though, because I’d like to give you this.”
He handed me the package and I opened it. Inside was Villancicos Españoles – Christmas Songs of Spain, a Folkways recording. I didn’t know what to say. “But this is yours … ”
“I can always get another copy here in Seattle; please take the record. It will make me happy to think you’ll play the music… and remember Spanish 304.”
I thanked him and started edging in the direction of the exit, feeling panicky he was going to say something about David or the postcards.
Mr. Maldonado took a few steps toward me. “Norma told me she invited you to her housewarming on Saturday.”
“Yes … I think the party starts at eight.”
“It’s a long walk up her hill …. may I give you a ride?”
I was speechless. What was I going to say to this kind, earnest man – “thank you, but I already have a date with the married professor you saw me having breakfast with on Sunday”? I realized how awkward it would be if David and I attended the party together and made an immediate decision to decline Norma’s invitation. I knew she would understand when I explained about the postcards.
Letters To My Mother Page 18