Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  “Really?” Margaux asked as she undid the clasp and extracted the small gold cylinder. “What would my mother say?”

  “You leave her to me,” Eleanor said as she moved into Tom’s arms. “I’m sure when I explain it to her, she’ll think it’s just fine.” She was aware of the slight pressure of Tom’s hand on the small of her back.

  “Very nicely done,” he said. Eleanor could see how Margaux had painted her lips and was experimenting with various expressions—a moue, a smile—in front of the tiny mirror.

  “I just don’t want her to feel she’s been left out of everything,” she said.

  “Lovely, kind, compassionate Eleanor,” Tom said, spinning her adroitly. “How lucky we all are that Patricia’s taxicab rammed into yours on that rainy day. And I do mean all.”

  She pressed her face against his shoulder, too filled with happiness to reply.

  It was after two when the party broke up. Margaux had fallen asleep on the wicker sofa; Tom and Wynn carried her to her bed. Eleanor said good night to the few remaining guests and to her employers. There had been no opportunity for a proper kiss tonight, but the time she and Tom had spent in each other’s arms, dancing as Freddy played one tune after another, had been gift enough. At one point, he’d been daring enough to let his lips graze the top of her ear; the spot where they had touched felt electrified.

  Feet slightly sore, Eleanor slipped off her shoes and hooked them onto two fingers as she walked back across the lawn to the cottage. The dew-drenched grass felt good on her bare skin, and she intentionally avoided the brick path. Once inside the cottage Eleanor felt too keyed up and restless to sleep. She went to the window to look over at the house. It was dark, except for a single lighted window. Henryka still up? No, Henryka’s room was on the third floor. The light was coming from the second-floor bedroom, the one that had been Margaux’s but where Tom now slept. She knew just where it was because Margaux had told her.

  Just knowing that Tom was awake excited her. What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? She continued to stare at the window, where the light was beckoning her. She wouldn’t go, of course. It would be foolish. Dangerous even. She could lose her job. Besides, Tom might not like her showing up at his door—he’d think she was too forward.

  But earlier, at midnight, Wynn had started to uncork the champagne bottles, and she’d had two bubbly, lovely glasses. And before that, one of Tom’s expertly mixed Manhattans—It’s our drink, he’d murmured as he handed it to her. So now she was pleasantly, mildly inebriated. The alcohol was weakening her resolve, and fueling her desire, both at the same moment. And so, without bothering to put on her shoes, she set off back toward the house.

  The darkened living room was a mess, glasses and plates everywhere, an ashtray overturned on the rug. Eleanor resisted the urge to straighten up. Tom. She had to find Tom. Treading very carefully, she ascended the stairs. Her bare feet made no noise. Or at least not very much. But all the adults up here were drunk; no one was apt to hear her.

  Once she got to the dark upstairs hallway, she waited until she had oriented herself. There, at the far end, was a thin line of light under a door. Tom’s door. She moved toward it, and when she reached it, she put her hand on the knob and turned it. “Eleanor?” he said simply. He’d been reading and an open book was splayed across his bare chest. The blades of the electric fan that sat on the bedside table made a subtle clicking sound as they spun and she could make out his long form under the sheet. She ought to leave. Now.

  “I was kind of hoping you would come.”

  “You were?”

  “Okay, maybe not hoping. But wishing. Fantasizing.”

  She said nothing, but felt a pleasurable heat rising up, spreading across her face.

  Tom was still looking at her. “Would you come and sit by me?”

  “Where?”

  “On the bed.” He shifted to make room and patted the space beside him.

  She hesitated. “You’re . . . naked under that sheet, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. But don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said. “Not at all. It just means I have to be naked too.” Had she really said that, or just thought it? Oh, she really was drunk. Drunk and had taken leave of her senses. Tom had said nothing. What if he were repulsed by her boldness? Thought she was a girl with no morals, a slut? There had been a night, more than a year ago, when she had permitted Ira to remove her bra entirely and place first his palms and then his lips on each of her naked breasts. She had not, however, allowed him to remove her panties, though he himself had slid down his striped boxer shorts and stepped out of them. He had pressed himself against her closed thighs, trying to cajole her into stripping off the last little scrap of material—pale blue rayon, ribbon edged—that separated them. She had said no. How many times since then had she replayed that scene in her mind, wishing it had ended differently, wishing she had said yes, that she had not deprived herself of the fulfillment of her desire. Now she was glad, no, not glad, jubilant that she had waited. For this. For Tom, who stirred both her body and her soul.

  Carefully, she stepped out of her skirt and undid the buttons on her blouse. Next came her brassiere, her slip, and finally, her underpants. It was only when everything else was off that she realized she was still wearing the fascinator; she reached up, removed it from her head, and placed it on the neat pile she’d made of her clothes. She was aware of him watching the entire time. When she too was completely naked, she stood there, feeling his gaze take in every visible bit of her.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Tom finally said, sounding oddly formal. “I promise I won’t touch you unless you say it’s all right.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, and gently let her weight down onto the mattress beside him. She did not say any more; she could not, she was too busy listening to the rush and roar of her own blood in her ears. It sounded so loud to her; could he hear it too? She reached out to put a hand on his chest; his skin was so warm. And he was so long and lean; not a bit of extra flesh on him. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Then he pulled her to him, so that her naked breasts were pressed against him, no space between the two of them at all. They kissed slowly, tentatively, for a moment before he disengaged himself and leaned back against the pillows.

  “What is it?” she said, disappointed. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “You’re a virgin,” he said as if that were the logical answer to her question.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “It does to you,” he said. “I can tell.” He smoothed the hair away from her face, but it was the gesture of a father or a brother. Not a lover. “Don’t you want to save yourself? For your husband?”

  “I did save myself,” she said. “For you.” She didn’t like the way he was touching her now; it made her feel trivial. Undesirable. She pushed his hand away.

  “But I can’t be your husband,” he said. “Even though I want to.”

  “I don’t care,” she replied, trying to tamp down the joy she felt at hearing these last words. He wanted to be her husband! He wanted her! “I can be your mistress instead.”

  He laughed, and then became serious. “No,” he said. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

  “What do you mean you won’t let me? It’s not your decision. It’s mine.”

  “Wouldn’t you say that it’s a decision that needs to be mutual?” When she said nothing, he added, “And if I don’t agree . . .” Eleanor looked away. She would not beg him, she would not.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said finally.

  “Who said anything about leaving? I never asked you to leave.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I said I would not deflower you. Not because I don’t want to; I want to very much.” The smile returned to her face and she did not care if he saw it. “But I think I would end up hurting you, and I don’t want to hurt you. I hurt a girl once, a long time ago. She was a friend of Tricia’s. I would neve
r want to hurt you that way.”

  “So then if you won’t, I mean, you know . . .”

  “There are other things we can do,” he said, and he pushed her back gently on the bed. “Plenty of other things. Let me show you.” He slid down her body, nudging her thighs open with his hands. He began to kiss her lightly—her stomach, the bones of each hip, the flesh inside her thighs and then—

  “Tom, what are you doing?” she said, alarmed, intoxicated by the pleasure of having his mouth there, there of all places! “Shh,” he said when she began to moan. “If Trish finds you in here, all hell will break loose.”

  Twelve

  When Patricia woke the following morning, she felt as if bits of broken glass had been scraped over her corneas. Horrible. She closed her eyes again.

  She’d had too much to drink at the party and then she’d had to deal with Wynn and his urges, as he called them, when she got to bed. Their one night of mutual passion, ignited after Audrey’s wedding, had never been repeated. But their relations had not quite reverted to their predictable and stale routine since then either. Wynn had changed over these last few months. Some nights he was rough with her, treating her body as something to use, rather than arouse or delight. As bad as this was, even worse were the nights that he became abject and pleading. It was then that he seemed pitiable to her, and she didn’t know how to respond. If only she could have confided in Maddy again—maybe Maddy would have had an answer. Fortunately, last night he had been quite drunk and by the time she emerged from the bathroom, he’d passed out on their bed. At some point during the night he’d woken and reached for her, but she’d been able to evade him and he’d gone back to sleep.

  A bird squawked rudely in a nearby tree and she opened her eyes once more. She could just imagine the god-awful mess out there; she supposed she’d better go and oversee the cleanup. She put on her silk robe and marabou-tipped slippers, and thus garbed, shuffled out to the living room, vowing to go a little easier on the drinking for a while.

  To her astonishment, the room was immaculate, with no sign of last night’s excesses in evidence. Glasses and plates were gone, surfaces wiped and waxed. The overturned ashtray she’d spotted had been cleaned up too; Patricia could see the marks from the carpet sweeper crisscrossing the rug. The kitchen too, was tidy, and she found a vase filled with early yellow mums—their color so insistent that she almost needed to close her eyes again—and a pot of coffee on the stove. Had Henryka done all this? It seemed unlikely; she must have had help. But who? Patricia considered this and then her eyes settled on the note:

  Darling, Tom and I took Margaux sailing at the club. Wanted to let you sleep in. If the weather holds, we’ll be out all day. Margaux was very eager to be on the boat again. It did me a world of good to see her enthusiasm.

  Love,

  Wynn

  Her irritation with last night’s inept fumbling was replaced by a rush of affection. Yes, Wynn had been oafish lately, especially in bed. But he was good to their daughter. He’d taught Margaux to love sailing, and she would come home from their outings, hair blown wildly around her face, eager to tell Patricia how far they’d gone, or show her a new knot Wynn had taught her to tie.

  After a cup of black coffee and a hot shower, she felt significantly improved. When she came back downstairs, wearing a cotton piqué dress in a flattering shade of apricot, she decided that she wanted to spend the day out of the house. Maybe drive to Dudley for lunch; she could ask Eleanor to go with her. That might be a good thing, she reflected. She’d wanted some time alone with Eleanor; this would give her the perfect opportunity.

  She stepped out of the front door, into the sunshine. There, across the road, was Dottie Talbot. “Hello!” she called to her neighbor. Dottie turned and waved. Patricia crossed the road. “Was your head as bad as mine when you got up?”

  “Was it ever!” Dottie said. She had her hair wrapped in a printed turban and wore linen slacks, a halter top, and a very large pair of sunglasses.

  “But it was fun, wasn’t it? Isn’t Freddy something else?”

  “Everyone loves Freddy,” Patricia agreed.

  “And your Miss Moss! At one point she was reciting poetry out on the sunporch—Shakespeare, John Keats, or was it John Donne? I can’t remember; I don’t care much for poetry. But I was in the minority, let me assure you. She drew quite a crowd.”

  “Eleanor was reciting poetry last night? I had no idea,” said Patricia. Certain parts of the evening were a blur.

  “Oh yes, and with great feeling. Where in the world did you find her?”

  “It was really quite a fortuitous accident. Literally. My taxi rammed into hers on Park Avenue one day in June. Margaux adores her.”

  “I can see why.” Dottie lowered her voice. “Tell me—is she a Jew?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Patricia said. Whatever fragile sense of well-being she’d felt about her prospects for the day were rapidly crumbling.

  “It’s just a feeling I had. She was rather evasive when I asked where she lived back in town. I’ve never seen her in church with you. And then there’s that name; it could have been shortened from something else.”

  “Dottie, please don’t mention it to anyone,” Patricia said. “It really could be quite awkward, if you know what I mean. Margaux’s very fond of her and she’d be devastated if she were to leave.” She couldn’t believe she was even talking this way, but she guessed these were Dottie’s thoughts, and she needed to address them head-on.

  “Oh, I won’t say a word,” Dottie said. “It’s entirely your business whom you want to hire. But there is one more thing . . .”

  “What’s that?” Patricia had thought that she could handle this—the need for secrecy, even the illicit thrill it gave her. Now she was not sure at all. “No one else knows, do they?”

  “I couldn’t say. But it seemed to me that she was very chummy with Tom last night . . . maybe a little too chummy, if you get my meaning. People noticed. And they started to ask questions. About her.”

  “You know what a flirt Tom is,” Patricia said, now desperate to grab hold of this conversation and turn it in another direction. “Such a ladies’ man. He’s always been that way, even when he was a boy.”

  “I know all about Tom. So does everyone else. But do they know he would take up with a girl like that? It could hurt his reputation—and yours.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Patricia said, struggling to sound casual. “But all the same, it can’t hurt to mention it to him.”

  “Might save you some heartache,” said Dottie. She took off the sunglasses and without them, her eyes were still a bit bloodshot.

  “Of course, of course,” Patricia said, and turned to look across the road. She knew Tom was off sailing, but where was Eleanor?

  “Will you be at the club at all this week?” Dottie’s glasses were now back in place, masking her expression.

  “Yes, I think so. Well, I suppose I should be getting back now.” She waited for what she thought was an appropriate beat. “About that other thing . . . you will keep it to yourself, won’t you?”

  “You can count on me,” Dottie told her, squeezing Patricia’s hand. Her nails, freshly lacquered, were bright red, a shade Patricia often selected for herself. So why today did they make her think of blood?

  Back in her own kitchen, Patricia was surprised to find Eleanor and Henryka together. Henryka had baked a batch of her beloved sticky buns and was pouring coffee. “Good morning, missus,” she said. “You want coffee? Bun?”

  The sight of the glazed pastry made Patricia’s still unsettled stomach clench, but she wanted to be part of whatever this was, so she sat down and accepted both a sticky bun and a second cup of coffee. “Thank you for doing such a good job cleaning up,” Patricia said to Henryka. “You got everything done so quickly.”

  “Mr. Wynn—he help.” Henryka added a generous amount of cream and several teaspoons of sugar to her own coffee.

  “He did?” Patrici
a was surprised.

  “Oh yes. He insist.”

  “Well, isn’t that . . . thoughtful.” Patricia was puzzled. When had Wynn ever shown any interest in, much less insisted on, helping with housework? As she picked at the pastry, she reflected on her husband’s dual nature: he could be such a boor, but then he’d surprise her, like he had this morning.

  “Now I go change sheets,” said Henryka. Opal was sick and Henryka was picking up the slack. After she’d gone, Eleanor remained quiet and kept her gaze down. Why was she so subdued this morning? The conversation with Dottie replayed in Patricia’s mind, and her anxiety began to spike. “How would you like to drive over to Dudley with me today?” She pushed the bun away, reminding herself that she’d have to get rid of it without Henryka’s knowledge; if it was discovered that she had not finished it, there would, inevitably, be sulking. “There’s a little place in town where we could go for lunch. And we might do a bit of window-shopping too; they have a couple of nice stores.”

  “All right,” Eleanor said. She was eating her sticky bun with a knife and fork, and taking small, discreet sips of her coffee. Patricia had to allow that she had exceptionally fine table manners; she wished they would rub off on her daughter.

  “Finish your coffee first,” Patricia said. “I’ll tell Henryka we’re going to be gone for lunch.” Then she went into Tom’s room to retrieve his keys from inside a large tarnished golf trophy that had belonged to Wynn’s grandfather. Since Wynn had taken their car to the club, she would use Tom’s; she knew he wouldn’t mind. The room was not too untidy though the bed had not been made, which was hardly a surprise given Tom’s casual attitude toward housekeeping. She saw the trophy, located the keys, and was about to leave when something on the pillow caught her eye. Something pink. Putting down the keys, she went over to inspect. There was a streak, small, of what appeared to be lipstick on the pillowcase; she rubbed it and it smeared in just the way lipstick would smear. The way Eleanor’s new pink lipstick—she’d even let Margaux try it, for God’s sake!—would have smeared, had she been in this room, in this bed, last night.