“I would like to know what it is that you want, Anthea.” Drazen said.
I had turned to face him, waiting for praise or at least coaching, wanting to look into his eyes again. His question surprised me.
“I want to play the piano.”
“Ah, I had hoped that perhaps you wanted me to teach you.”
“?”
“You already play the piano. But you play with these . . .”
He reached out and picked up my hand, holding it gently by the tips of the fingers. My skin prickled where it touched him.
“When you could be playing with this.”
He held me by the wrist and placed the palm of my hand against my chest, between my breasts. The contact wasn’t overtly sexual but I felt naked in front of him. The surprising thing was that my body was clearly happy about that. My mind was offended.
I shook his hand off my wrist and stood up.
“I’m leaving now”, I said.
Drazen bowed his head. I’d never seen anyone do that in real life before. His eyes stayed on me during the bow. I couldn’t read them but I didn’t want to look away from them. I had to remind myself that he had been rude to me and that I wasn’t going to stand for it.
“Are you always so . . .” I realized that rude was the wrong word. He’d been polite but, “. . . personal with your students?”
“What is life if it is not personal, Anthea?”
That was pretty much the question I’d been asking myself on New Year’s Eve.
“I’m going now.”
He stepped back and to one side so that I had a clear route to the door.
I didn’t leave. It was Anthea the Hun who wanted to leave. The rest of me wanted to stay. I sat down.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You caught me by surprise. I’d like to stay.”
He didn’t look surprised, but he did smile.
“Then I’m glad that I ‘caught’ you at all”, he said.
And he had caught me. We became lovers within the week. But even in bed he was my teacher. He taught me to listen to the now, to surrender to the needs of my body in order to feed my soul. Another man talking like that would sound ridiculous, Drazen just sounds truthful.
Months afterwards, lying in his arms after sex, I asked him about the day we met. I wanted to know what he thought of me then.
He lifted my chin off his chest to make me look at him and said, “I thought then, what I think now. That I want you. That, if you will let me, I will take you. That sometimes life is worth living.” I knew then that he loved me.
“We’re here, ma’am”, the driver says.
There are no lascivious looks, no innuendo. I smile at him and tip him more generously than usual.
Anja is waiting for me when I get home. She has the same grave face as her father, one that is transformed when she smiles.
Anja is doing her best to find a place for herself in America, but she has a solemnity about her that is not normal for an eleven-year-old American girl, but she is strong, a survivor. She has survived the war in Bosnia, the death of her mother, her exile in America. Seeing her standing there on the porch, her face lit by the huge jack o’ lantern that I helped her carve last night, I want to rid her of her ghosts. I want to see her filled with joy.
“Hello, Morticia,” she says, holding out her hand in a formal invitation “come and meet Gomez.”
Tonight we are, at Anja’s insistence, the Addams Family. She will, of course, be Wednesday.
Drazen is already in the double-breasted pinstriped suit that is his concession to costume. I wonder if he was wearing it when I called.
“Gomez, mon cher, mon amour,” I say in a voice I hope is like Anjelica Huston’s.
“Ah Trish, you spoke French,” he says on cue, taking my outstretched arm and kissing his way from the back of my hand up my arm to my neck. I glance sideways at Anja/Wednesday, wondering if she approves, fearing that moments like this summon the spirit of her mother. The edges of her mouth are slightly upturned. I take that as a warm approbation.
When Drazen’s head is at my neck I twist sideways, plant a quick kiss on his cheek and say, “Thank you, that was delicious.” Then I send him away so that Anja and I can change.
Anja has prepared everything, the clothes are laid out on the bed, the wigs are on the dressing table. It is all I can do to slip away and shower before she sets about her work.
There is an intimacy in dressing each other that is like nothing else. It is a recognition of trust and an offer to reveal and to transform. The costumes emphasize this. I never wear black at home, yet now I am wrapped in it like a shroud.
“How do I look?” I ask as the wig goes on.
“Believable,” Anja says.
Not quite the comment I expected. I wonder how I normally look to her. There is a short silence during which I grow nervous in front of this child.
Then she hands me the makeup bag and says, “Make me look sad, but scary.”
It doesn’t take long.
“Gomez” declines to walk the streets with us. Waving a thick cigar, which I know he will not smoke, he says, “My dears, the two of you are frightful enough, three of us could prove fatal.”
By the standards of the day our costumes are sedate, yet at every door Anja makes a killing. She never once steps out of character, extorting treats because, from her, the threat of tricks seems so real.
I let her walk ahead of me, keeping to the shadows, arms folded across my breasts whenever we reach a house. Watching Anja, I see her father, his stillness, his confidence. I wonder which of her gestures belong to her mother, Sanja.
I realize that I am jealous of Sanja for having Drazen before me. Crazy to be jealous of a dead woman, and yet tonight I feel as though, at any moment, I might meet her.
When Anja’s sack is full we return home. She is so serious that I am uncertain whether she has enjoyed herself or whether this has all been a bizarre experiment in which she has tested the sanity of those around her and found them wanting. Yet when she sees Drazen on the porch, she runs to him.
“DaDa” she says, holding up her sack, “look how much they gave me.”
“You must have made them tremble, little one.”
“No, it was Anthea, standing in the shadows like a threat. She was perfect.”
Drazen looks over Anja’s head at me and smiles. I feel as though I have won a medal. I wait for Anja to turn and thank me, but she grabs her sack and runs into the house.
“Happiness still catches her by surprise,” Drazen says. “She wants to go and hug it to herself in private.”
He takes my hand in his, rubs his thumb against my palm and says, “You understand that I’m sure.”
I almost tell him then, but I don’t want to do it in my costume so I wait. Dinner comes and goes without me finding the right moment. Anja gets permission to sleep in her Wednesday outfit because, as she explained very seriously, “it is still Hallowe’en until morning,” and then Drazen and I are alone.
I go into the bedroom to change out of my Morticia costume. Drazen follows me. Leaning against the door frame, he looks at me, waiting for something.
I want to tell him. But not yet. “I need to think some more”, I tell myself. “Coward”, I reply.
“Come to bed,” Drazen says.
“I have to do some work first, I’ll be back later.”
I can see he doesn’t believe me, but he makes no comment when I go back downstairs.
I sit at my laptop, pretending to work, trying to find my courage. I make some coffee and go out onto the back porch.
The moon is full tonight. It sits in the sky, large and round and proud. It occurs to me that the moon and I are both pregnant, except that I don’t show yet.
This is what I need to tell Drazen. So what’s stopping me? We aren’t married. We’ve never really talked about the future. A man with a past like Drazen’s can be forgiven for living in the present. I don’t want to drive him away and I don’t want to for
ce him to commit. And I don’t know how I feel about being pregnant.
I know exactly when this baby was conceived. It was on the anniversary of Sanja’s death. Drazen had never talked to me about how his wife died, but then I’d never found him crying before. I held him and let him cry.
“They hurt her, Anthea, before they killed her; they spent a day hurting her. And I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t even know what was happening until they dumped her body at my door.”
I rocked him, holding his head to my breast.
“She was my life, Anthea. And they killed her.”
There was nothing to say, so I stayed silent.
After a while he looked up. His eyes had no strength in them, only sorrow. I kissed them one at a time. Then I kissed his mouth, again and again, small healing kisses.
I put his hand between my legs. I don’t know why I did it. Words seemed so inadequate. I gave him what I had. The sex started slowly. I sat astride him and pulled him into me. Then I carried on kissing him. He stopped crying. He held me so tightly that it left bruises. Then he started to fuck me, fiercely, passionately, as if fucking me was the only thing that kept him alive. He clung to me even after he had come. I still hadn’t spoken to him, but now it was me who was crying.
I think he was saying good-bye to his wife that night. I know he was choosing me, choosing life. It turns out that we were also creating one.
I shiver in the cold and realize I have been outside a long time. Drazen is asleep when I reach the bedroom. The moon is washing his face with silver. He looks older, more vulnerable. I want him so badly it frightens me.
Time to choose: trick or treat?
I stroke his face, following the moon, then I sit astride him. He doesn’t wake until I kiss him. I place his hands on my breasts and rock gently on his cock, which is lying flat against his belly. I lift my hips and he slides into me. So good to have him there. So good to have him.
“There is something I need to tell you,” I say.
Drazen puts his finger across my lips, pulls my head down to him. He pushes upwards, slowly, without urgency, until he is all the way in.
“What shall we call the child?” he says.
5. Thanksgiving
“You want me to sleep here?”
“Well, this is where you slept when you lived here, Helen. Why should it change now? I thought you’d be pleased to have your old room back.”
I try to read my mother’s face. She must be doing this deliberately. And she must know that I can see what she is doing. But she still has that innocent, not-quite-connected-to-planet-earth look that she uses to avoid any minor questions about her decisions that my father might be rash enough to voice.
I stare in disbelief at the single bed that I slept in as a child. It’s a very narrow single bed.
“I know that you prefer to ignore the fact that Peter and I are married, mother, but he is my husband and I expect to have him in my bed. We can’t sleep here.”
“Really, Helen, I have no idea where you get these impressions from. I have no opinion about Peter. As I said at the time, who you chose to marry was up to you.”
What she’d said at the time was “Are you sure you want to marry Paul, dear? He’s such a bland man. I can see the advantage of having someone manageable, but marriage needs a little spice if it’s to last. I’ve always preferred to wake up to Huevos Rancheros, the problem with Paul is that he’s just so . . . oatmeal.”
I’d stood there, with my hands balled into fists and my jaw clenched, trying to quell the desire to hit her.
“His name is Peter, mother,” I’d spat out.
“You see, dear, not even his name is memorable. Ah well. It is your decision of course.”
Now, seven years later, I find myself having to bite back my anger one more time. My mother is talking. I’m trying not to strangle her.
“I didn’t think that you and Peter would mind being separated for one night. I’ve given him the fold-down bed in your father’s den. He’ll be perfectly comfortable. I had to give the guest bedroom to Troy and Dianna; after all, they have the baby to think of.”
The baby. Of course we should be thinking about the baby. My younger brother (what kind of mother calls her kids Helen and Troy?) produced a grandchild right off the bat. I of course committed the sin of putting my career ahead of my duty to deliver grandchildren, although even that became Peter’s fault in my mother’s mind. “If Peter has a problem, dear, I can recommend an excellent clinic.” My mother had left that helpful tip on our answerphone in the second year of my marriage. Peter played it back to me when I got home from work.
I don’t resent the fact that Troy and Dianna got the big bed. I resent the implication that Peter is so bland that I won’t even notice his absence.
“I want him here with me, mother.”
Even I can hear how petulant I sound.
“Well, if it’s that important to you, dear, I’ll ask your father to move the fold-down bed in here. I’m sure he won’t mind. Although of course he has only just set everything up in the den. But then your father always makes sure that his little Helen gets what she wants, doesn’t he?”
I don’t believe it. She is still jealous of the fact that Dad will do things for me.
“There won’t be a lot of room in here. You’ll have to fold up the bed before you can open the door. But, if that’s what you want . . .”
Oh God. It is always like this. A constant trickle of words that erode my will. I either have to get angry or to shut down and give in. Giving in is easier. If I push her now, the topic will come up at dinner. And again in the morning. And the next time we come to the house. If there is a next time.
“Never mind, mother. Peter can stay where he is. Let’s just concentrate on getting dinner ready.”
“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”
How did this woman live so long?
“You look tense, Helen. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up? Dianna is changing the baby in the bathroom but you can use the suite in the master bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
And then she is gone. The relief is physical, like when your ears pop at altitude.
I don’t really need to freshen up, but it gives me a reason to delay going downstairs. Nothing has changed in my parents’ bedroom. The huge wrought-iron bed with the chintz canopy over it is still there. I used that bed the first time that I fucked Peter. I used it because I liked the headboard, because I wanted revenge on my mother for all the times I’d had to listen to her thrashing in this bed in the middle of the night, and because I wanted to see if good, nice, sensible Peter Brader would do what I wanted him to do.
I sit on the stool by the dressing table and summon up the memory of a nineteen-year-old Peter, lying on this bed with his wrists tied to the headboard; so calm and trusting that, except for the impressive erection he was saluting me with, he might almost have been ready to sleep.
Other boys I’d known had only pretended to submit. They’d made comments as I tied them to establish that it was all a game, and as soon as they’d come they’d started to fret at their bonds, demanding to be let free. Peter didn’t do any of that. He just waited for me to use him. But his serenity wasn’t passive. Somehow it managed to amplify everything I did. The harder I fucked him, the harder I wanted to fuck him. His cock was my lightning rod, calling me forth, daring me to spend myself on him, taking everything that I could give and leaving me discharged and sated.
Afterwards I’d left him tied to the bed while I sat and brushed my hair. A beam of sunlight was shining down on him, highlighting the sweat on his muscles and the small scratches and bites I visited on him. He looked happy, even grateful. I’d shown him my wildest side. I’d sworn and fucked and bitten and scratched and shouted my come with my head thrown back and he hadn’t pulled away, he hadn’t been threatened. He was waiting for more. He was waiting for me. For the first time in my adult life I felt as if I’d found a home.
Pete
r wasn’t my first fuck, but he was my first lover. Actually, he is my only lover. To me that is a statement of how rich my life is rather than how narrow my experience has been.
“Helen dear, if you’ve finished up there, you can help your father lay the table.”
The sound of my mother’s voice makes me feel guilty and furtive and childish. I get off the stool quickly. Why does coming home always turn me back into a little girl? And why do I hate that so much?
There are six of us at dinner, but there is food for at least a dozen. The conversation is stilted at first. Troy and Peter have the mandatory road-number-filled review of the drive to my parents’ house, even though I actually did the driving. I ask Dianna about the baby, revealing my ignorance of modern childrearing with each question that I ask. Mother fusses over Dad, ensuring that he gets the best slices of meat, touching his hand when she passes him things, keeping his glass full. She always makes sure that he knows he is the center of her attention. Dad catches me watching them and gives me an unapologetic grin. This is how the world is, that grin says, and it’s too late now to change it.
As the wine flows, words become easier for everybody but me. I feel as though an invisible barrier has settled between me and everyone else. I watch, but I don’t speak. Peter fits in so well. He is a good listener. People relax when they talk with him. When they talk with me it is as if they are always just a little on their guard. Dianna is talking to him now. Peter isn’t talking to her about the baby. Somehow he has learnt that she paints, and within a few moments the woman I could barely exchange a word with is sharing her passion for abstract art. As the courses go by, I drink and eat more than I should. I want to speak to Troy. I want to sit and exchange deep truths with him, except that those truths remain just out of reach of my words so I remain silent. By the time we reach dessert I am quite drunk. It seems to me that Peter has abandoned me. Everyone has abandoned me.
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