She hesitated, then sneaked through the room to the kitchen, closing the door carefully behind her. She was starving and hoped there was something to eat.
The food in the fridge was still cold so she knew the power hadn’t been off long. She pulled out something wrapped in wax paper—half a cheese sandwich—and gobbled it as she studied the rest of the contents of the refrigerator.
“Aha,” she whispered, spotting a beer. She grabbed it, then searched for an opener, muttering to herself. Just before she drank, she remembered the pills Tim had given her. That was hours, days ago. And she drank. The beer tasted heavenly.
On top of the fridge was half a loaf of bread. By the moonlight from the window, she searched the cabinet and found a precious jar of peanut butter from the PX. She twisted off the top and stuck her finger into it, scooping up a mouthful. It tasted almost as good as the beer did.
Then, getting an idea, she spread peanut butter on the bread and found an apple to cut up. She laid the slices on top of the peanut butter. She took a big bite.
Then thought: a shower. She’d like to be clean. Clean. That would feel so good. She finished the beer and the sandwich, then sneaked back through the living room to the bathroom.
Because the lights were still out, Sally had to take her shower in the dark. It didn’t bother her until she started feeling around the bathroom for a towel. Her hands met terrycloth. Who needed the light? Nothing here she wanted to look at. She used the towel to dry her wet hair, before dropping it on the floor. She shook her head, spraying droplets of water all around herself, like a dog after a swim. I feel good, she thought. And the surprise of it made her laugh.
Back in the bedroom, she realized she didn’t have any clean clothes and the thought of putting on the clothes she had been wearing was unpleasant. She headed for Tim’s closet, when she had another idea.
She pulled the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around herself, throwing the end over her shoulder as though it were a sari. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking the damp curls, and wondered if there was anything else to eat in Tim’s kitchen.
Halfway through the living room, she was stopped by a noise from Tim, a sort of groan that ended with a sputter. It was a wonder that he was asleep, she thought, considering how terribly uncomfortable he looked. The sofa was a wide one but it wasn’t long enough for him and he was sleeping on his stomach, his face squashed into the pillow on one arm of the sofa, one foot propped up on the other. His covers were twisted tightly around him, exposing most of his back and one leg that had come to rest over the edge.
Thinking to make him more comfortable or at least to cover him up, Sally moved toward him. And stopped as pale moonlight moved across his back. He wasn’t wearing a top and the leg that hung over the side of the sofa was bare as well. She became terribly aware of her own nakedness under her sari, wondering what her breasts would feel like against the shadowed skin of his back.
Sally reached a hand for his shoulder, then retracted it. She knelt next to the sofa, sitting back on her heels. And Tim opened his eyes and looked straight at her, as though he had known she would be there when he awoke.
He didn’t move or speak and neither did she; both of them watching, wondering what she would do. Then Sally broke her gaze away from his and raised herself up so that she was kneeling again. She paused, still not looking at him. She could stand or she could . . . and once again she acted before a thought could stop her. She leaned over and kissed him.
They kissed for a long time. Then Sally began to touch him, running her hands along him, feeling the roughness of the hair on his arms, the smoothness of his chest. She ran her fingers across his face, feeling the soft skin under his eyes and the brush of his mustache, the stubble on his cheek, the silkiness of his hair. She stopped, her hand coming to rest on his chest. He covered her hand with his.
“That was nice,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she answered, also in a whisper.
He rubbed her hand, the palm of his hand pressing hers against his chest. “Is that all you want?”
“No,” she said, the word like a breath. She wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had disappeared. She felt his heart under her hand, and in the stillness of the room, she could hear his breathing.
“Well,” he said, no longer whispering, “why don’t we go in the other room?”
Sally nodded and he got up, then he tugged her up from her kneeling position so that she stood before him. Lightly he touched her shoulders, brushed his hand just as lightly across the top of her breasts. He tugged gently at her makeshift sari.
“What have you got on?”
“Your sheet.”
“My sheet.” He tried to push the top down but it was wrapped too tightly. “Maybe we oughta put it back on the bed. What do you think?”
In the bedroom he held her close to him as he unwound the sheet. When he was done he dropped it behind them onto the bed and put his arms around her.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She didn’t let go of him, but pushed back far enough to be able to see his face. His body against hers felt almost unbearably good. “Oh, Timmy,” she breathed and, putting her hands on either side of his face, kissed him.
SHE AWOKE SEVERAL times during the night, unused to sleeping with someone, and whenever she did, Tim seemed to sense it and although he didn’t wake up entirely, he held her close to him. When she did sleep, she slept without dreams. The miracle of his warm skin against hers was enough to chase the ghosts away.
She opened her eyes to see the gray light of dawn through the blinds. If this was all there ever was with him, she knew it had been worth it just for the closeness, which she had fooled herself into thinking she could do without. And the sex, too. She had been crazy to go without it all that time. And she turned her head into Tim’s warm shoulder.
When she next woke, he was dressed, showered, and shaved. She watched him as he was tying his tie in front of the bureau mirror, enjoying the way he expertly flipped the ends of it around, the way he looked all spick and span and masculine. He must have felt her eyes on him because he turned his head.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
He turned back to finish his tie, then looked at her again, his eyes searching her face, the hills and valleys she made in the covers.
“What are you looking at?” she asked. He didn’t answer, but tucked his tie into the front of his uniform blouse, patting it down, checking in the mirror. Then, satisfied, he turned and walked over to her, sitting down on the bed. He smelled wonderfully, of soap and whatever he used to shave with.
“I’m looking at you,” he said, finally answering her question. He touched her face, her hair. “I can’t believe you’re here, naked, in my bed.”
“I must look a sight. My hair always sticks straight up.” And she ran one hand through it.
“Yes,” he said, “it does. But you look beautiful.”
“No, I don’t.” That she’d never believe.
“Yes, you do.” And gently but firmly, he pulled the sheet off her breasts and kissed each nipple, reminding her of things he had done to her in the night. He replaced the sheet. “Beautiful breasts, too.”
She sat up and put her arms around his neck, rubbing her face against his, kissing his smooth, clean-smelling cheek.
“Hey,” he said softly, his hands against her bare back.
“Why are you dressed?” she asked. “What’s today? Isn’t it Saturday? Or Sunday?”
“Neither. It’s Monday. You lost a day.”
“I should get up . . .” She moved as though to jump out of the bed, but he held her still.
“No, you shouldn’t. You are officially on sick leave, so take it easy. I mean, if you want to stay, I’ll be back around seventeen hundred or so. I’ll bring some food. You must be hungry.”
“Yes.”
&nb
sp; “Good. That’s healthy. There’s toast and coffee in there, maybe even a roll or jam. Well, you can look. I’ll leave my car keys if you want to go home. If you want to go . . . I hope you don’t want to leave. Do you?” Sally shook her head. “Great,” he said, kissed her quickly and got up. At the door, he stopped to look around at her. “Say, how do you feel?”
“Fine. I feel just fine,” she said.
“WHAT’S HAPPENED TO you?” Tim asked, taking the cigarette from between her fingers.
"You,” she said, knowing what he meant. She propped her head up on her hand and looked down at him. He was lying flat on his back, one arm under his head, the other holding the cigarette. The room was lit by several candles. The lights still had not come back on. Sally touched Tim’s chest, reveling in the ease between them. “And what’s happened to you?”
“I don’t know. You. Those pills I gave you or something.”
“Or something. And I think I kissed you.” Sally stretched up and kissed his jaw, then relaxed back next to him. “Oh, I don’t ever want to leave this apartment, this bed. Can I stay here forever? Will it be different then? I haven’t thought of . . . any of that. Those photographs.”
He ran his hand over her shoulder, her waist, down to her hip. “Don’t worry about them. They’re all still there and you don’t even have to think about them until you’re back in the office.”
“What do I have to think about?” she asked, stretching under his hand, his gaze.
“Me,” he answered and his smile crinkled around his eyes.
She touched his mustache with her index finger, then kissed it.
“I’ll shave it off if you don’t like it,” he said.
“No. Don’t you dare. Don’t change anything,” she said, reaching for him, drawing him to her.
“HEY, LOOK, THE light’s back on,” Tim called, as he went into the bathroom sometime later.
“Rats,” muttered Sally. Part of the dreamy quality of the past hours in his apartment had been because of the candlelight. She turned on her back and pulled the covers over her. She had found a clean set of sheets that afternoon, before Tim came home, and had changed the bed. She had also washed the dishes and had picked up her own clothes, but she had very carefully avoided moving any of Tim’s things.
An image: Herself, in a blue wrapper, feeling wifely, picking up Christian’s shirt and socks, hanging his uniform tunic in his wardrobe.
Memories from the past. The first one in almost, what? Forty- eight hours. She covered her eyes with her arm, fighting the feeling that was creeping up inside her, threatening her newfound sense of peace.
She felt rather than heard Tim standing next to her. She reached her arms out for him. He sat down on the bed, holding her.
“You all right?” he asked softly.
She nodded, then leaned back so she could see his face. “I don’t want always to be like this. Needing your comfort. I liked being happy.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do to keep you that way. You know what I wish?” Getting under the covers, he stretched out next to her so she could feel the bristly hair on his long legs. She liked it, the feel of his male body, the way he made her own body feel.
“What?” she asked.
“I wish we could get dressed and go out and find San Francisco outside. We could walk to a cable car and ride down to North Beach and I could take you to this little Italian place where we could have rigatoni and red wine.”
“Sounds great,” Sally said, tracing his collarbone across the top of his torso, running her hand over his shoulder, down the muscles of his arm.
“Then we could go listen to some jazz. Do you like jazz? There’s one place with a great combo, a piano, bass, and singer. They’d let me sit in late on Saturday nights.”
“With your clarinet?”
“I liked playing there. It was difficult at home when the kids were babies. Irritated Nancy. And I never had time to practice anyway.” He fell silent, and Sally watched his expression as he dwelt for a moment in his memories. She drew his face down to hers and kissed him. Very gently so as not to wake him too abruptly. “Oh, Sally, Sally, Sally,” he said, holding her to him, his voice full of yearning.
She could understand how the past held and caught at you at unexpected moments. Suddenly, she had a feeling, so strong, that she never doubted the future it promised, of Tim and her together, the past finally left behind.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sally got up very early, as planned. She had to return to her room to change, so she put on her clothes and left without awakening Tim. In the living room, she found a pad of yellow foolscap and wrote him a quick message: Good morning. Hated to leave. See you later. She hesitated, then added, Love, S.”
She propped the pad up in the middle of the floor against a couple of books and stepped over it to leave the apartment. Tim had left her the car keys and she drove quickly through the silent morning streets. It was strange to be outside again but she found the destruction of the city didn’t upset her as much as it had before. She wondered why but didn’t take the time to figure it out, her mind and heart full of Tim and their long hours together. Her body ached in secret places and her nerve endings felt acutely alive. She felt alive.
At work, she left her bag and coat in her office, and went down the hall to see the colonel. The door to Tim’s office was closed as she passed, although she could hear his voice and Nelson Armbrewster’s inside. She didn’t stop.
She saw Tim several hours later when she entered the conference room for the weekly meeting of D-6. He sat at the far end of the table, as he usually did, slouched in his chair. She could feel his eyes on her as she fielded questions from the other men about how sick she’d been. They teased her, covering up their concern with light banter, and she was grateful for the distraction. She wondered how long it would be before they figured it out and what they would think of her then.
After the meeting ended, Sally walked down the hall with Doug Finkelstein, who was telling her about an interview he had done with a boy who had survived four years at Dachau. Both of them were startled by Tim’s voice. He was right behind them.
“Sal,” Tim said casually, “you got a minute? I’ve got something to show you. Just take a minute.” He held a file but Sally knew it was just a diversion. She made an excuse to Doug and followed Tim down the hall to her office.
“Lieutenant,” he said, opening the door. She passed in front of him to her desk, putting her papers down on it. Tim closed the door and, without a word, they went into each other’s arms.
“This is stupid,” Sally whispered.
“Stupid? Am I being insulted?”
“No. I mean it’s wonderful, but stupid. I was just with you a couple of hours ago.”
“Hours and hours ago. We’re not used to each other yet.” He kissed her again, his lips and tongue delicately touching hers. She backed away from him.
“God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” she said in mock horror.
“Sure you will. We’ll get so used to each other, we’ll fall asleep without making love.” He was teasing, but Sally could see the hint of a shadow in his eyes.
“In the same bed?” she asked.
“You weren’t married long enough to find out,” he said lightly. An experiment.
“No,” she answered, just as lightly, “I wasn’t.” And was relieved to see how easily both of them had come through this latest exploration. She kissed him, then gently pushed him away. “Now go. I have to work.”
“You want to have dinner tonight?”
“You don’t want any time alone?” Sally cocked her head and looked at him. “Be honest.”
He thought for a moment, then grinned. “Nope. Not yet anyway.”
“Okay. But you tell me.”
“Fat chance,” he said, and was gone.
IT WAS FUNNY. Seeing Tim, hell, living with him, she was surprised to find herself able to look at her days with Christian in a more realistic light. She could see ju
st how those days had been colored by a quiet desperation.
There had always been such a sense of crisis about their love: the baby, Christian’s lies, the situation with Heydrich, all of it. And she began to understand that she had never really gotten to know him. Except, perhaps, toward the end, after his first arrest. Remembering the night on Peacock Island, she could see with the clearer vision of hindsight that Christian had been more vulnerable, and more needful that night. She even could believe that he had loved her that night.
But she also believed that their visit to Peacock Island had been a setup by Heydrich for his own purposes and that Christian, in spite of his love for her, had been involved, perhaps against his will, perhaps not. The Gestapo had come for Christian the next morning. Unless his arrests had been setups as well.
Well, Heydrich had nearly killed her and she had been tricked and lied to by both men, whether Christian had been coerced or not. She had thought never to allow another human being close to her again. Until Tim.
After fighting her attraction to Tim, she realized that her feelings for him—she didn’t yet define them as “love”—but her feelings were calmer, less romantic, and, at the same time, more complex. He was her lover, but also her friend, colleague, and co-worker, and he continued to treat her as such. She came to understand that he, too, was reluctant about becoming too intimate. Perhaps the most important revelation, Sally thought, was the knowledge that she made Tim happy. She didn’t think, if she forced herself to face the past that she had made Christian happy.
But there were other ghosts to confront.
She arrived at Tim’s apartment building, one blustery evening several weeks later, to find one of his neighbors, an extroverted British woman married to an American, struggling to haul her six-month-old daughter, a string bag of PX groceries, and a large paper-covered package up the stairs. Holding her arms out, Sally meant to take the package. But the woman handed over the baby, and Sally held the infant in her arms.
The Last Innocent Hour Page 54