She seemed to be waiting for me to say something, so I said, “I’ve never used, myself.”
“Want to sometime?”
“Not really.” After all, it either wouldn’t affect me, or it would, right? “Does it matter?”
“No,” she said. “I think it does not.”
“I agree. And in any case there’s something more important to us.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Your pizza is here.”
She laughed. “That is more important, but I don’t hear anything.”
“You will.”
The door chime came right on cue; two deepthroated gongs, the second a fifth below the first. She looked quizzically at me and said, “You have good hearing.”
“I only listen to quiet music.”
She stood up and went over to the mantelpiece, took the top off a pewter bowl, and pulled some paper money out of it. “Then turn the record over and we’ll hear some more. Coffee should be done, too; help yourself.”
I turned over the record and got two cups of coffee, mine only half full, so I missed hearing her interactions with the delivery boy; that would have been interesting. The coffee steamed on the knee-high table in front of the couch. There were coasters on it, so I used them. She set the box down, opened it, and said, “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“Quite sure. I’ll just make you nervous by watching you eat.” In fact, I thought the smell rising from the baked dough more noxious than appetizing, but I kept my opinion to myself. I brought the coffee to my lips, enjoying the warmth, as Susan took a triangular piece of pizza and bit into it. Her bites were neither gluttonous nor dainty; she seemed to be enjoying herself.
“So,” she said as she finished the first piece and carefully wiped her mouth on a paper napkin furnished by the pizza company, “you like Joplin?”
“That contumelious ass? Hardly.”
“What do you mean?”
I smiled. “Excuse me, I was being funny. Yes, I enjoy his music a great deal. You, it seems, have quite a variety of taste.”
“And you don’t?”
“In theory, yes. I like the very best music, whatever form it might take.”
“But?”
“But I haven’t the patience to wade through the ninety-nine percent that is worthless to find the occasional gem, so I usually let time decide for me.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If a piece of music has survived forty or fifty years, then it probably has something to it that is worth listening to.”
She shook her head. “You have to wait a long time, then, to hear anything new.”
“I’m patient,” I said. “And the music I enjoy does not quickly become wearisome.”
“I love the way you talk,” she said, smiling full into my face.
“More coffee?”
“Please.”
I got her a new cup, warmed my own. She drank some, had another piece of pizza, then closed the box and said, “I think that is enough for me.”
“Then shall we go upstairs?”
“By all means.” She stood and held out her hand for mine. I took it, and, believe this if you will, I felt anticipation like a quickening of the pulse and a shortness of the breath. We went past the room where Jill was sleeping soundly, and Susan opened the door to her room. She stepped in, turned the overhead light on, and I followed. I took a moment to observe, both for what I could learn of her, and to prolong the moment; to hold off the delicious and now inevitable joining; if I ever indulge myself shamelessly, I think it is in such things as this.
It was a good-sized room, with walls painted some color for which only women know the name, one of those shades that is almost white with a bit of yellow. On the wall to my right was a black-framed photograph of her in the midst of some dance, ecstatic expression, mid-leap, etc. The opposite wall held a print of Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette. There were potted plants both hanging and on the floor throughout the room, many of them trailing tendrils haphazardly, so one had the impression that the entire room was framed in green stems and leaves. The end of one even dangled onto a corner of the bed, which was a mattress set on the floor, in elegant disarray of blue pillows, blue sheets, and yellow comforter. A plain wood dresser was next to it, an old-fashioned windup alarm clock on the dresser.
“Do you like it?” she said, spinning slowly, arm extended to show the room.
“Yes, only I’d expected a big iron bed enclosed in white lace.”
“Oh yes. Someday.”
She pulled off her T-shirt with the unselfconsciousness one finds in actors and, I suppose, dancers. There was no trace of coquetry in the action, although she watched me and smiled. She wore nothing underneath. She untied her skirt, let it fall, and stepped out of it. She wore nothing underneath that, either.
I searched for an interjection and didn’t find one, so I just shook my head. She came up to me and began unbuttoning my shirt. I took her hands in mine and held them, then brought my mouth to her warm, warm lips. She seemed startled by the contact at first, then relaxed. Our tongues touched for an instant, then I pulled back and our eyes met. Hers were very wide and deep, inviting me to become lost in them as she became lost in mine. I put my arms around her, my hand finding the hollow of her back as I kissed her temple, her ear, and her neck. We sank down onto the bed, still holding each other.
I ran my hands along her body. Yes, indeed, she was a dancer, or an acrobat, or a swimmer. She was strong, inside and out. I touched her and she shivered; she touched me and I trembled. I felt her enter the maelstrom of sensation at the same time I did, and we explored it together. She made low, moaning sounds of pleasure, while mine were harsh and animallike, but the urgency was mutual.
Many, many hours later I rose. She was sleeping soundly, with a slight smile on her face. I slipped out of the house and returned to my own. Jim said something when I came in, but I don’t remember what it was. I only shook my head in answer and came up here to stare at a blank page and let the cold seep back into my body. I am still in a daze from the experience, one of the most powerful of my life. It is as if I have changed in some way, but I can’t tell what it is, or if it will fade with time.
Change frightens me, and it is a long time since I have been frightened. I don’t know what this means, but I do not like it.
FOUR
flinch intr. v. 1. To betray fear, pain, or surprise with an involuntary gesture such as a start; to wince. 2. To draw away; retreat.
What is love? I think
I must not see Susan any more. If I
Happy New Year, Jim. How should we
What is Kellem doing? Why haven’t I heard from her? Or, more accurately, why hasn’t she consummated her scheme? It has been more than a month, and this waiting is
I haven’t touched this machine for several days, and, now that I am here, I find myself both reluctant and unable to set down what I have been doing. I have not been back to see Susan or Jill; in fact I have been doing very little except walking around and around the house, occasionally venturing out into the yard, sometimes the street.
I find myself growing apprehensive at the prospect of what Kellem has planned. There is no doubt that she is pulling together all the threads for my demise, and the thought of her complacently going about her business, knowing she may take as much time as she needs, has been preying on my mind. And yet, she is certainly right, there is nothing I can do.
It is mid-January, and winter’s grip is still firm. I must be careful where I walk, lest I leave footprints that could cause suspicion. My thoughts have returned to Susan several times, but I don’t think it means anything; little infatuations are not uncommon, particularly in old men, and no doubt it will pass. I remember that, years ago, Kellem mentioned something about this, although I can’t think what it was. I recall that we were walking as she spoke, and it must have been shortly after we left London, because that was when we spent the most time together, and she was telling me things I ought to watch out for, and she mentioned infatuations as one.