Yet he has pleased her, Pete Rose or not Pete Rose.He slipped in, and somehow the gentleness ofthe entrance, the unassuming, gracious, perfect guest aspect ofhis sexual presence caused in her an explosion ofpleasure.
Suddenly, she remembers who calls the white penis Pete Rose.Hampton.
The thought ofhim creates a guilty nausea in her:he must never know.
But what was Hampton doing talking about Caucasian sex organs? She can’t remember.Surely some rant, some long riffofdisparagement.Hamp-ton, materially so well-off, so light complexioned, so privileged, seethes against the white world as ifhe were particularly oppressed, as ifthe indig-nities visited upon him had some greater resonance because they were hap-pening to a man ofhis high quality.Even the gross misdeeds committed against less fortunate folk—the jailings, the beatings—were assaults against him, who perceived them so starkly and felt them so keenly.And so he feeds this disdain for whites into the furnace ofhimself, as ifwithout it he would cease to be fully alive.His sense ofwhite people is full ofthe feelings ofin-justice—how easy life is for them, how their power contradicts Darwin, for surely they are not the fittest—but without any great passion for justice: Hampton admires white hegemony, envies it, and he wishes it were the other way around, he wishes that the privileges were all his, and that to be born into a black family, a special black family, that is, one like his, would be-stow on you the kind ofbirthright that the spoiled white brats took for granted.Inasmuch as possible, Hampton has chosen to live in that sort of world.The people he likes to be around, the people he does business with, drinks with, jogs around the Central Park reservoir with, areAfrican-American strivers like himself, who feel all the proper respect for Hamp-ton’s pedigree—a lineage ofaccomplishment and gentility that no white person would even recognize, with fortunes based on such peculiarly Negro enterprises, such as cosmetics for dark-skinned women, Cadillac dealer-ships, weekly newspapers servicing the folks in Newark and the South Side ofChicago, radio stations at the back end ofthe dial.Wherever Hampton travels, from D.C.to Boston to Detroit to San Francisco, there are people like him, more than willing to pay their respects not only to Hampton but to his lineage, because to celebrate what it means to be aWelles, they also af-firm the importance oftheir own family names, the majesty oftheir schools and clubs and summer resorts.They bow to one another as a way ofgenu-flecting to themselves;they kiss each other like smooching with a mirror.
Daniel murmurs something in his sleep, and Iris clicks offthe flashlight.
She lies back in bed, rearranges her pillows, and recalls with a kind of thrilled griefthe sounds he made while they were making love, the pigeon warble ofmounting excitement, the sweet undefended cry ofsurrender.
The night has ended, the snow has finally stopped.Vast mountain ranges of vapor have been heaved up by the storm, but between the clouds and the horizon colors appear—pale blue, slate gray, and yellow.Inside the house it is light enough to read, light enough to lift yourselfup on your elbows and look around the room and see the scatter ofclothing on the floor.
Their noses are cold, their foreheads, their feet, the tips oftheir fingers.The furnace is still dead, the digital clocks are black.
“Good morning,”Daniel says.“Did you even sleep for one second?”
“I’m not much ofa sleeper anyhow,”she says.
”I don’t think I slept, it was more like passing out.”
“It seemed,”she says.
”Did I snore?”
She shakes her head no.
”So, let me ask you,”he says.He presses himself against her.“Has the myth ofCaucasian sexual prowess been put into clearer perspective?”
“Yes,”she says.“It has.”
Daniel’s smile slowly fades.He looks, in fact, unnerved.A little crack ofcold air opens up between them as he shrinks back from her.
“You were wonderful,”Iris says.“Youarewonderful.I can’t tell you how impressed I am.Seriously.Did your parents send you to sex camp?”
“Sex camp?”
“Don’t white folks have all these different camps for their kids—
baseball camp, weight loss camp, computer camp.”
He rolls next to her, gathering her closer.He is powerless not to.He has waited too long to lie next to her, he has yet to get his fill.
“I’m sore,”she says, removing his hand.
”You are?”he says, smiling.
”Aren’t you?”
It dawns on him.He reaches behind him, feels the small ofhis back.
“My back doesn’t hurt, which is a sort ofClass B miracle.As for Mr.
Johnson, he’s been waiting for this his whole life.”
She laughs, though she doesn’t find it all that funny—what amuses her is his intention to amuse her.
She places her hands on Daniel’s shoulder, as ifto give him a little shove.But the feel ofhis flesh fascinates her, derails her impulse to rough him up a little.She squeezes his arm and then kisses his shoulder, touches her tongue against his skin—he tastes like a wooden countertop upon which someone has not quite cleaned up a spill ofmolasses.
He wants to make declarations.He wants to tell her how long he has dreamed oflying next to her, and he wants to tell her how the reality of actually being with her has exceeded his most fervid imaginings—but he has already said these things.He has discovered little imperfections in her body—brackish breath as she grew tired, a kind ofabdominal fullness that suggests one day she will have a belly—but, ofcourse, in the state he is in, these things have only made her more desirable:they have made her real, they have made herhis.He wants to tell her she is beautiful, but how many times can you say that in twelve hours without it becoming suspect?Yet, he must declare something.Is he, for instance, meant to go home now and pretend none ofthis has happened?
She seems to have gotten there before him.She looks at him with great seriousness and says,“Say something to me.Tell me what I want to hear.”
His first instinct is to declare his love, but something tells him not to.
”I’ll tell you this,”he says.“I’m not going to crowd you.I know your life is complicated.”
“It is,”she says softly.
”More than mine.IfI lost everything, it wouldn’t be that much.I’m not married.I don’t have a kid.”
“You have Ruby.”
“She’s not really mine.”
“Yes she is, the way you love her.And ifanything happened, you might never see her again.That would be so terrible.”
“It’s not like you.You have a good life.You have your son, school, your life, everything.I don’t want to be a problem.”
“So what do you think ofme?What do you think ofa woman who’d fuck some guy in her husband’s bed?”
“I don’t know.Maybe she should be taken out and stoned to death in front ofa vast crowd.”
He smiles to let her know he’s kidding, but she doesn’t find it funny, and the timing irritates her.
“Well, nobody needs to know, do they,”she says.
”What are we supposed to do?”he asks.
”You think I’m going to change my whole life because you slept in this bed last night?”she says.Her voice is a little sharp, which she regrets.