“Every night on Kenmore Avenue.”
“Every night. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Benstock of 803 Kenmore Avenue regret they must reject your kind invitation as they will be at home that evening fucking.’ I hope we remember to draw the drapes.”
“Let’s never open them. Just in case the mood comes on us suddenly.”
“As it very well might. And we don’t have to get up and go home, and I think that’s the best part. No more going home to Admiral Road and trying not to walk bowlegged.”
“What a nice picture that makes.”
“And trying at the same time to keep the smile off my face. I wonder if they knew. I suppose they must have.”
“Do you care?”
“Not a bit.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Are you sorry we didn’t wait?”
“Why should I be?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might be.”
“I’m not. You’re not, are you?”
“God, no. I couldn’t have waited, I don’t think. I could never sleep after a date with you.”
“And I thought you weren’t interested. All those months and you never tried anything.”
“I was afraid of spoiling things. I knew I was going to marry you and I didn’t want to rush you.”
“When did you know?”
“As a matter of fact, cliché or not, I knew from the first time I saw you. That’s something nice and romantic for us to tell our children. It happens to be the truth. I took one look at you and I said to myself that this was the girl I was going to marry. And then I told myself not to be ridiculous, but I never did change my mind.”
“What a wonderful man you are.”
“Just keep on thinking so.”
“You could have had me any time, you know. That’s probably not something I should be telling you. But I am glad you waited as long as you did. And I’m glad you didn’t wait any longer. You weren’t the only one who had trouble sleeping.”
“Think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?”
“Like a lamb.”
“Well, you go to sleep. I’ll just touch you a little.”
“Sneak. Oh, that’s nice. But you can’t be ready again so soon. Oh, but you are. How lovely.”
They made love again. It was briefer this time than before, but equally satisfying, and afterward he lay in her arms for just a few minutes before rolling off of her and going to sleep. He lay on his side facing her and she watched him sleep and remembered how she had watched him on the plane.
She smoked a cigarette, then put out the bedside light and stretched out beside him. But she was not ready to sleep, and after a few minutes she knew it.
She slipped out of bed and got the champagne bottle and a glass from her night table. She went into the living room and poured herself a glass of champagne.
Shortly after they had begun having sex they had confessed their prior experience to one another. She had admitted to one affair at Bryn Mawr and two in New York. He told her he had had one genuine affair at Cornell, another brief affair in law school, and perhaps a dozen one-night stands with girls he had picked up. She was certain his summary was the literal truth, and just as certain that it was a good thing hers wasn’t.
Years ago she had taken it for granted that it would be impossible to marry a man who did not have considerably more sexual experience than she did. She had since come to see that neither sexual experience nor sexual sophistication was terribly important. Of course she was glad that Mark was not entirely without experience, but she was also glad that his experience had been no more extensive than it had.
Nevertheless, it still seemed to her that it was important for the man to think he was more experienced than his bride. And however much experience he had had, there was no question that his lovemaking satisfied and fulfilled her. She had slept with men whose store of sexual expertise was greater than Mark’s, but she had never slept with a man who moved her more deeply or pleased her more thoroughly. If he lacked something in the way of innovation and sophistication, he more than made up for it in other ways.
And she had learned to distrust sexual cleverness, anyway. New York had been full to overflowing with men who could screw you in every position the Kama Sutra ever thought of, and they all forgot your name before they were through doing it.
But how she longed to take his penis into her mouth! Ever since a boy from Haverford had taught her to enjoy fellatio, it had always seemed to her the ultimate expression of love, an act ideally to be reserved for what she had around the same time learned to refer to as meaningful relationships. It bothered her that she had done this with other men and not with Mark. There ought not to be anything she had done with others but not with him. She did not in the main regret her experience before she met Mark. It was the past, and nothing to do with the present. But she did wish to do with him everything she had ever done with anyone else.
She wanted to know his taste. On two or three occasions she had surreptitiously touched herself after intercourse and conveyed her hand to her mouth, seeking in that way to have the flavor of him. And so many times she had been on the verge of putting her mouth on him.
But it would be a mistake, surely, to take the initiative. And he had never hinted that she might do this for him, nor had he attempted to go down on her. He was marvelously oral and used his mouth with great enthusiasm and effect on her breasts, so much so that she was sure he would eat her magnificently if he only got around to it.
Oh, it would come with time. He had waited longer than necessary to make love to her at all, and perhaps this was a similar sort of reticence. Sooner or later he would add this element to their repertoire; if he did not take the initiative himself, she would find some subtle way to teach him to teach her. And what an eager pupil she would be.
She drank another glass of champagne and smoked another cigarette. It was late and she was tired, and she knew now that she would be able to sleep. She was a married woman on her honeymoon and it was a perfect honeymoon and she knew she would remember it all her life. And she knew too that she was slightly anxious for it to be over and done with even as she looked forward eagerly to its remaining days. She was a little impatient to begin this business of being a wife.
She padded silently back to the bedroom. He was positioned as she had left him, lying on his side facing her side of the bed. She got into bed and moved close to him, first feeling his body warmth on her skin, then moving closer so that their bodies touched. He did not awaken, but his arm reached out and fell across her body. She felt a deep sense of security unlike anything she had known since childhood. This man would take care of her. This man, this good man, loved her.
And she loved him. She did.
This had been the best day of her life. It was the most important day of her life, as she had known it would be, and now it had turned out to be the best day of her life, better than she had dared hope it would be.
Drifting off to sleep, her last thought was of her high school’s motto. Optima Futura. The best is yet to be.
Monday
September 21, 1964
“More coffee, Eileen?”
“Oh, do I have time? It’s two-thirty. I guess I have time for one more cup. But let me get it.”
“Don’t be silly.”
But Eileen Fradin was on her feet, headed for the kitchen. “Don’t you be silly,” she said. “Listen, you’re supposed to be in a delicate condition, remember? You might as well milk it for all it’s worth.”
“I feel about as delicate as a rhinoceros.”
“Well, I can get my own cup of coffee. More for you? Give me your cup. I wish my coffee tasted like this. Will you listen to me? I sound like somebody in a commercial. But it’s the truth, my coffee’s lousy. What brand do you buy, Andrea?”