Mating for Life

by Marissa Stapley

  • • •

  Four days later, midmorning, there was a knock on the door of her studio. Ilsa froze before the canvas she had just begun to dab at without purpose. She stood, threw a drop cloth over it, wiped her clammy hands on one of the paint-spattered hand towels on a hook by the sink, took a sip of water. Another knock.

  “Coming!”

  She opened the door.

  He smiled. “Hello there.” She was about to return his greeting and invite him in but he was already pushing open the door. He closed the door, put one hand on the small of her back, one on the back of her head, and kissed her, tongue plunging in, no time for pleasantries. She moaned softly and accepted that she wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He knows this about you, even if you don’t want to admit this about yourself. Maybe you really do just want someone to play rough with you.

  Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. And he did, endlessly, until she needed air, pulled her head away. “Good morning,” she said, meaning it to sound coy or cute, but it didn’t work. He left her standing alone and began to stalk her studio, his height and bulk making the room, with its high ceilings and exposed brick, seem somehow smaller to her, like when you return to a place you spent time in as a child and realize it wasn’t as grand as you thought it was. He reminded her of a lion again, this time caged. He looked like he might roar without warning and begin to rip canvases apart, knock paint pots to the floor, trash the place, and leave simply because he had to, because the energy inside him was too much to contain. This genius, this man, is in my studio, touching my things, in my space. It made her feel special. But also, powerless and inadequate.

  Many of her canvases were shrouded, mostly because she just didn’t want to look at them anymore. He lifted shrouds indiscriminately and she was reminded of the way he had so carelessly lifted her skirt that night in the alley. He looked underneath, let the sheets drop, moved to the next. “Show me more,” he said, and she obeyed wordlessly, standing by as he flipped through her paintings.

  “You lack passion,” he finally said, and it was like a slap. I didn’t ask you to come here and critique my work, she wanted to say. “You don’t lack talent, though. There’s something here. Raw, but here. A soul.” And now the sting was gone and she was glowing, humming inside. Lincoln Porter had not told her that she was talented but he had told her that she did not lack talent, and he had made reference to her soul.

  “More,” he said, “are there more?”

  She bit her lip. “A few.” She opened a cabinet. He flipped through them quickly.

  “Nothing else?” She pulled out some much older canvases, canvases from years and years before, and realized too late what was at the bottom of the stack: the paintings she used to do for Michael. “We should store these at your studio,” he had said to her once, and she had imagined he was afraid one of his children might find them. “What do we have to be ashamed of?” she had asked, and he had just shaken his head. She remembered he hadn’t been comfortable posing but he had let her take some pictures and she had found it so arousing. She had loved painting him. She had never done it for anyone else. Now she thought, suddenly, that she would not like to paint Lincoln, as much as she was infatuated with him, would not like to have to linger over his aging body, would much rather focus on his mind, close her eyes and let him kiss her and touch her, listen to him speak.

  He didn’t come here to talk, though.

  He was still going through the stack. “Hey, what are these? They’re in a different style.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. She had almost forgotten she still had those, the ones Eric had painted of her, when they lived in Paris. Two years. A blur. Sex, art, heartbreak. She reached for the paintings in his hand. “No, not those,” she said. She hardly thought of Eric anymore, but she did now, looked down at the painting and remembered this one, how he had painted her lying naked on his bed, and himself, too, what could be seen of him in the mirror. The short-lived marriage had ended because she had caught Eric, a rising abstract painter, making love to his mentor’s daughter. He had seemed surprised at her anger. “You’re free to have a lover, too, you know,” he had said. “I thought you knew that . . .”

  “I don’t want that!” she had screamed, and then she had screamed other things, too. (“She is seventeen fucking years old!” for example. He was shocked, laughed at her, said, “You might have a French father but you’re American, aren’t you?” “Canadian,” she had sniffled at him. “I’m from Canada.”) She left him, flew back to Toronto, borrowed money from Helen she would never be asked to pay back, and moved into the Annex, which was where she had been living when she first met Michael, in an apartment with polished wood floors like her studio, and a bed with a wrought-iron frame, and a big window with a view of Casa Loma. She attended art school during the day and worked as a coat-check girl at a jazz bar on weekends. She remembered how Michael had asked her to quit that job, said he would send her money if she needed it, and how she had said, “I don’t want to be treated like I’m your mistress.” He had proposed on his next visit.

  Lincoln was now holding up one of the paintings she had done of herself.

  “This is like that one you sent me. And that was good. These are good. And not just because of your body, your tits. These are good. These are what you should be doing. Paintings like this.” He held up one of her husband. “And this.” He took the painting she was holding away from her.

  She swallowed hard. “Nudes?”

  “Not nudes. These are more than nudes. And I’m sure you’re capable of an even higher intensity of eroticism, aren’t you?” Now he had put down both paintings and was pulling her to him. “Aren’t you?” She was wearing one of Michael’s old dress shirts and he opened it roughly, popping all the buttons. Then he unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor. “Beautiful,” he said. “Better than in the painting. But not by much.”

  Now she was unbuttoning his shirt and running her hands along his chest. And he was unbuttoning and unzipping her slim black pants, sliding them down her legs. Soon she was standing before him in nothing but her black lace thong. Their mouths had not parted. He pressed her against a wall and she undid the button and zipper of his trousers. They were both breathing hard and the sound of this, and their sighs, filled the room. They knocked over a stool. She pulled off his pants. He slid off her underwear and plunged a finger inside her and she moaned and arched against him. Two fingers, three, “Ahhh. Yes.” He put his hands on her hips and she lifted herself up and wrapped her legs around him as he entered her. She moved her hips, he moved his. He bit her neck and she clawed at his back. She felt her backside slapping lightly against the wall, wondered what her neighbor might think, if he was there painting. This just added to her arousal. Faster now, her moans and his becoming as rhythmic as the sound of her body against the plaster. She pulled him deeper inside her with each thrust. She heard herself say, “Fuck me, fuck me,” and heard him say, “Yes. Yes.” He shuddered and came and so did she.

  And then it was over. He put her down, and she stood before him, naked and panting, her legs wobbly.

  She found the old dress shirt and wrapped it around herself, and when she turned around, he was buttoning his shirt. She wondered what they should do. She had stools they could sit on, she could make tea. She opened her mouth to make the offer, but he silenced her with a fast kiss.

  And then he left.

  • • •

  When Ilsa had told her mother she was marrying Michael, Helen had asked her why she was getting married again.

  “Because I love him.”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” Things were left unsaid that Ilsa had been incapable of understanding at the time, but did understand now. What her mother had said, quietly, was, “Is it because . . . I’m sorry, but I have to say this: Is it because he’s like a father to you, like a father you never had? I mean, we both know you have a father, but Claude is more like . .
.”

  “Like a boorish uncle, thank you, I know that,” Ilsa had snapped, and they had proceeded to fight, which was rare. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to be like you?” Ilsa had eventually shouted, and Helen had flinched and said, “No, it didn’t occur to me, because sometimes I think, of all three of you, you are the most like me, which is why I felt I could be so honest with you. I regret that now.”

  Ilsa had said nothing to this, but she remembered feeling wretched. She had, especially when she was younger, wanted to be just like Helen. But as she grew older she had realized that Helen was only pretending to have no true need for men. Her strength was somewhat of a façade; she ached and felt lonely like everyone else. Perhaps in response to this realization Ilsa had developed a yearning for men that was even stronger than her mother’s unacknowledged one.

  Helen had spoken again: “Are you doing this to prove it, to prove you aren’t like me?”

  “You make it sound like I’m doing something wrong. I’m marrying a man whom I love and who loves me. A good man. A dependable man!”

  Helen had nodded. “Yes, he is those things. And he certainly has made his intentions with you quite clear. But, Ilsa, you might need more than good, you might need more than dependable. You might not think that now, but there might come a day . . . and he’s not the type to . . . be flexible in his arrangements.”

  “Do you think that’s what I want? Because I could have had that with Eric, and I didn’t want it! To live that way—why bother making the promise in the first place, then? If I wanted to live like that, I wouldn’t get married at all. But I am. I’m making this choice. I need you to support it.”

  “I just want you to be happy. Forever. I’m sorry I didn’t have the correct reaction to your announcement and I do support you.”

  “I will be happy,” Ilsa had said, defiant. “And by the way, even though you never got married, you didn’t always seem to be so happy. What about when—” She had been about to say, What about when Wes killed himself? but she stopped because even in her anger, she knew that would be a cruel thing to bring up.

  But Helen had known what Ilsa had been about to say. “Even if I had known the outcome, I wouldn’t have changed anything,” she said, her mouth smiling but her eyes sad. “I think love is a good thing, in any form. Even when it hurts. The pain often leaves behind a beautiful memory.” She had seemed to realize something as she spoke. She had reached out and put both her hands on Ilsa’s shoulders, squeezed, and then let go. Go forth and get yourself hurt, was what the squeeze had seemed to say. There’s nothing I can do.

  They never spoke of the discussion again. At the wedding, Helen had smiled, smiled, smiled. So had Ilsa, so had everyone. Especially Michael. He hadn’t wanted the big wedding at first, had insisted it be small. “This is my second, after all,” he had said to her. “And yours, too. Let’s be reasonable.” “But last time . . . last time, I eloped,” Ilsa had said. “This time, I want it to be extravagant.” In fact, she had needed it to be extravagant. And he had never said no to her, not in those days, so she had her lavish wedding. And it was a perfect day.

  One day, though. That’s all a wedding is. Ilsa knew that now. One day, and perhaps a few golden weeks away, during which time your new husband might schedule conference calls and suggest you go shopping to keep yourself busy, and you might realize you’ve already painted yourself into a ­corner.

  • • •

  Lincoln didn’t call, or text, or visit her studio, or leave any notes. Three weeks passed. Ilsa couldn’t eat. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. The only time she was happy was when she was with Ani and Xavier, and even then it was tinged by guilt. She could hardly stand to be around Michael. When she sat beside him in the car, she would think, I could tell him, right now, what I’ve done. And it would probably all be over. The fact that there was something between them that could end everything began to wear on Ilsa. She became silent—and Michael was already silent, lost in his own concerns. So when they were together, they barely spoke.

  One day, Ilsa heard a song on the radio, and the lyric “the opposite of love is indifference” made her cry, instant tears that felt sharp. She had never been the type to cry over songs, and hadn’t she known that line all through her life? It was nothing unique or new. The problem was she now felt it, acutely. Indifferent to the man upstairs, the man in her bed. Ani was coloring at the table and she looked up. “Mommy?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, darling.”

  • • •

  Weeks passed. Ilsa tried to forget, tried not to feel used and humiliated. Then, one morning, there was a knock at Ilsa’s studio door. She sat in front of the canvas and thought, No, I just won’t answer.

  But when the knocking stopped she felt sick. Was he gone? She stood.

  Knock, knock. She nearly fell to her knees with relief. She opened the door and she didn’t say, Why haven’t you called? She simply said, “Hello,” and pretended to be happy to see him, pretended it was normal that he would just be surfacing now, pretended she had other lovers, that she hadn’t been pining for him, no, not at all.

  He didn’t look at her paintings this time. And this time he also didn’t press her against the wall. He asked her if she had a blanket and she laid one out on the floor. She said to him, “We should really use a condom, last time we . . . it was all so rushed, but we really should,” and she fumbled with it and he didn’t help her. Afterward, her spine hurt. “I’ll call you,” he said, before he left, and she despised the way she clung to the hope that he would.

  • • •

  The night Ilsa went into her husband’s office with a chemise on and carrying a bottle of wine, she had known she was pregnant for about a week. And she knew it was Lincoln’s because she was unable to remember the last time she and her husband had had sex.

  I’ll try again tomorrow, she decided after the rebuff. Then she repeated it inwardly like a mantra: Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  She was terrified, she was sick, both literally and figuratively, but she also knew that she didn’t have any options. She wasn’t going to get an abortion. She had considered it, yes, but had known it would be a secret too terrible to keep. And it wasn’t the baby’s fault. Baby. It’s not your fault, baby.

  Days passed, and she didn’t try again with Michael. What are you going to do?

  She nearly lost track of the passage of time, until Fiona called and said, “I’m not doing Thanksgiving dinner,” her voice sounding strange, as though she had just woken up, and Ilsa had realized that time was passing alarmingly fast. How far along does that make me? She hadn’t been feeling well that day. A stitch or a cramp had been bothering her. Probably the uterus starting to stretch. I can’t ignore this much longer.

  “I’m . . . traveling. Going away a few days. So I can’t.”

  “You’re traveling? Alone?” Ilsa had said. “Where?”

  “It’s—nothing. Nothing. Just something I couldn’t avoid.”

  “Fiona, are you all right?” Ilsa and Fiona had never discussed what had happened that night at the party. Like everything else, it seemed, Fiona had swept it away, pretended it wasn’t an elephant in the room, but every time Ilsa had seen her, she had sensed some sort of distress. She could hear it in her voice now, over the phone line.

  “I’m fine. Just busy. What else is new, right?”

  “Right.” Ilsa held the phone tight to her ear. She wished she could confide in Fiona. Fiona always knew exactly what to do about everything. “Will Tim and the boys be on their own? Should I have them over, cook them something?” Ilsa had never offered to do this for Fiona before and was sure her sister would decline, explain that she had precooked a seven-course meal that she would have the housekeeper serve in her absence.

  “Could you? It’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh. Well, of course. Will you ask Tim for me? Find out what time works bes
t?”

  “Why don’t you just call him yourself? He’s at the office.”

  So Ilsa had called, feeling nervous as she punched in Tim’s extension, even after all this time. She had never actually called him directly before, so she had had to use the company directory, and felt odd about calling the office and not speaking with Michael. When Tim picked up he sounded distracted. “That would be good,” he said. “We were probably just going to order pizza again.” Again. Strange. Ilsa wondered for a moment if perhaps Tim and Fiona were having problems, and tried to catalogue how this made her feel. Nothing. It didn’t make her feel anything. She felt relieved by this, but still concerned for her sister and for Tim. But no, not possible. Those two are the most solid couple in the world.

  “Five o’clock, then.”

  She had hung up and wondered what she would make. She’d never cooked a Thanksgiving dinner before and it seemed a bit late to get a turkey.

  Her phone rang, and she looked down at it. Lincoln.

  “Where have you been?” she asked before she could stop herself, and hated the sound of the words when she said them.

  “At a retreat in the Himalayas. No phones. No wireless. Poor Ilsa. Don’t you like waiting for release?”

  She was silent. Her eyes stung. “Hello?” he said. “Are you still there? I have a few hours free. I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “I’m busy,” she said. “I’m planning Thanksgiving.” She placed emphasis on the word as though it gave her credence in some way. I am a woman who plans Thanksgiving dinners for people, for my family. She understood, finally, what it might feel like to be Fiona, to be able to hide behind pressing responsibility.

  “How about a drink, then? Tonight? Come on. Surely you can get away from your turkey for a few hours?”

  She hated that she felt such elation. She didn’t answer him.

  “Ilsa,” he said, and his deep voice turned her name into something like a purr. “I can’t stop thinking of you. Your heat, the way you feel on my fingers, the way you respond to me, the way you’re not afraid to want.”