He laughed. “If you’re just a poor, ignorant, black girl, trying to get along, I’d sure hate like hell to tangle with one who’d made it.”
“But you wouldn’t know. You think women tell the truth. They don’t. They can’t.” She stepped away from him, busy with another saucepan and water and flame. And she gave him a mocking look. “Men wouldn’t love them if they did.”
“You just don’t like men.”
She said, “I can’t say that I’ve met very many. Not what I call men.”
“I hope I’m one of them.”
“Oh, there’s hope for you,” she said, humorously, “you might make it yet.”
“That’s probably,” he said, “the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She laughed, but there was something sad and lonely in the sound. There was something sad and lonely in her whole aspect, which obscurely troubled him. And he began to watch her closely, without quite knowing that he was doing so.
She said, “Poor Vivaldo. I’ve given you a hard time, haven’t I, baby?”
“I’m not complaining,” he said, carefully.
“No,” she said, half to herself, running her fingers thoughtfully through a bowl of dry rice, “I’ll say that much for you. I dish it out, but you sure as hell can take it.”
“You think maybe,” he said, “that I take too much?”
She frowned. She dumped the rice into the boiling water. “Maybe. Hell, I don’t think women know what they want, not a damn one of them. Look at Cass — do you want a drink,” she asked, suddenly, “before dinner?”
“Sure.” He took down the bottle and the glasses and took out the ice. “What do you mean — women don’t know what they want? Don’t you know what you want?”
She had taken down the great salad bowl and was slicing tomatoes into it; it seemed that she did not dare be still. “Sure. I thought I did. I was sure once. Now I’m not so sure.” She paused. “And I only found that out — last night.” She looked up at him humorously, gave a little shrug, and sliced savagely into another tomato.
He set her drink beside her. “What’s happened to confuse you?”
She laughed — again he heard that striking melancholy. “Living with you! Would you believe it? I fell for that jive.”
He dragged his work stool in from the other room and teetered on it, watching her, a little above her.
“What jive, sweetheart, are you talking about?”
She sipped her drink. “That love jive, sweetheart. Love, love, love!”
His heart jumped up; they watched each other; she smiled a rueful smile. “Are you trying to tell me — without my having to ask you or anything — that you love me?”
“Am I? I guess I am.” Then she dropped the knife and sat perfectly still, looking down, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table. Then she clasped her hands, the fingers of one hand playing with the ruby-eyed snake ring, slipping it half-off, slipping it on.
“But — that’s wonderful.” He took her hand. It lay cold and damp and lifeless in his. A kind of wind of terror shook him for an instant. “Isn’t it? It makes me very happy—you make me very happy.”
She took his hand and rested her cheek against it. “Do I, Vivaldo?” Then she rose and walked to the sink to wash the lettuce.
He followed her, standing beside her, and looking into her closed, averted face. “What’s the matter, Ida?” He put one hand on her waist; she shivered, as if in revulsion, and he let his hand fall. “Tell me, please.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to sound light about it, “I told you, I’m in a bad mood. It’s probably the time of the month.”
“Now, come on, baby, don’t try to cop out that way.”
She was tearing the lettuce and washing it, and placing it in a towel. She continued with this in silence until she had torn off the last leaf. She was trying to avoid his eyes; he had never seen her at such a loss before. Again, he was frightened. “What is it?”
“Leave me alone, Vivaldo. We’ll talk about it later.”
“We will not talk about it later. We’ll talk about it now.”
The rice came to a boil and she moved hastily away from him to turn down the flame.
“My Mama always told me, honey, you can’t cook and talk.”
“Well, stop cooking!”
She gave him that look, coquettish, wide-eyed, and amused, which he had known so long. But now there was something desperate in it; had there always been something desperate in this look? “But you said you were hungry!”
“Stop that. It’s not funny, okay?” He led her to the table. “I want to know what’s happening. Is it something Richard said?”
“I am not trying to be funny. I would like to feed you.” Then, with a sudden burst of anger, “It’s got nothing to do with Richard. What, after all, can Richard say?”
He had had some wild idea that Richard had made up a story about himself and Eric, and he had been on the point of denying it. He recovered, hoping that she had not been aware of his panic; but his panic increased.
He said, very gently, “Well, then, what is it, Ida?”
She said, wearily, “Oh, it’s too many things, it goes too far back, I can never make you understand it, never.”
“Try me. You say you love me. Why can’t you trust me?”
She laughed. “Oh. You think life is so simple.” She looked up at him and laughed again And this laughter was unbearable. He wanted to strike her, not in anger, only to make the laughter stop; but he forced himself to stand still, and did nothing. “Because — I know you’re older than I am — I always think of you as being much younger. I always think of you as being a very nice boy who doesn’t know what the score is, who’ll maybe never find out. And I don’t want to be the one to teach you.”
She said the last in a venomous undertone, looking down again at her hands.
“Okay. Go on.”
“Go on?” She looked up at him in a strange, wild way. “You want me to go on?”
He said, “Please stop tormenting me, Ida. Please go on.”
“Am I tormenting you?”
“You want it in writing?”
Her face changed, she rose from the table and walked back to the stove. “I’m sure it must seem like that to you,” she said — very humbly. She moved to the sink and leaned against it, watching him. “But I wasn’t trying to torment you — whenever I did. I don’t think that I thought about that at all. In fact, I know I didn’t, I’ve never had the time.” She watched his face. “I’ve just realized lately that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, certainly more than I can swallow.” He winced. She broke off suddenly: “Are you sure you’re a man, Vivaldo?”
He said, “I’ve got to be sure.”
“Fair enough,” she said. She walked to the stove and put a light under the frying pan, walked to the table and opened the meat. She began to dust it with salt and pepper and paprika, and chopped garlic into it, near the bone. He took a swallow of his drink, which had no taste whatever; he splashed more whiskey into his glass. “When Rufus died, something happened to me,” she said. She sounded now very quiet and weary, as though she were telling someone else’s story; also, as though she herself, with a faint astonishment, were hearing it for the first time. But it was yet more astonishing that he now began to listen to a story he had always known, but never dared believe. “I can’t explain it. Rufus had always been the world to me. I loved him.”