I’d better note that my relationship with Shirley, while steamy, was inconclusive and passed as ironic household play — that is, on Shirley’s part. I seemed all too caught up in it, my experience having been confined to the pleasure my aunt Silbie dished out, and dished out directly. This was different. I resolved that some sort of legitimate barrier based in the marriage vows of the Hansons was going to require me to finish the work myself after one of Shirley’s humpfests.
Between astronomy and civics, an unscheduled two hours found me either at the library or back at the Hansons’ for an afternoon snack, usually prepared by Shirley. Since these were such obvious opportunities for hanky-panky, we made a point of avoiding it, and the result was that my snacks were often beautifully prepared little meals that sent me back to class content, and reconciled to my lost opportunities. Because I was so unassertive at these times, I blamed myself for awaiting Shirley’s initiative and wondered what might have happened if I’d just had the nerve to reach out and touch her. The chance that she would scream, “Get your hands off me!” just as Hanson popped in filled me with terror.
Today she served me a lovely little wedge of homemade shepherd’s pie and a green salad with walnuts and olives. She asked me, “Are you taking any history courses?” She had a beautiful smile on her pretty face, her auburn hair piled atop her head with a few strands tumbling over her forehead.
“I had American history last term.”
“That’s my favorite.”
“American?”
“Mm. Especially the Civil War.”
“That was good,” I said.
“The Revolutionary War, well, you see those paintings, they don’t really resemble us. But the Civil War, they had photos.”
“It makes it so much closer to our own time,” I said, fishing. I knew that I had sort of missed the point, so I added a few details about the incomprehensibility of the Revolutionary War period, Washington’s wig, knee socks, wooden teeth, three-cornered hats, the whole nine yards. “Plus, they didn’t free the slaves.”
“We can’t even imagine what that must have been like. Try to picture Michael Jordan or Bill Cosby as slaves.”
“I can’t.”
“Imagine how uppity they’d be?”
“I know, I know.”
“So, let’s confine our thoughts to the Civil War.”
“Well, in American history,” I said, “we touched on lots more than that. The Teapot Dome Scandal and so on.”
“The difference is, the Civil War has such a hold on our imagination.”
“Amen to that.” I wasn’t trying to be an asshole; I just didn’t know how to follow this line of conversation. At the same time, I intuited a lot of passion behind Shirley’s enthusiasm for that war. I felt so lost that I finally asked her why we kept talking about this particular subject; that was about as bold as I got in those days. She gave me a hard look and said, “I just lay the rail. I don’t drive the train.”
Shirley got the idea that Audra had the hots for me. This was no accident. Audra, who treated me with such savagery on the second floor, grew girlish in my proximity on the first floor. She seemed to have the capacity to emit light dew from her skin and add starlight to her eyes at will. By fluttering around me in the presence of both Hansons she produced a double effect: Hanson began to treat me with a new formality that verged on a surprising coolness; Shirley, doing housework for appearances upon Hanson’s return, always straightened slightly when Audra entered the room, then turned with a wintry smile to greet the three of us without focusing on any one, a teacher welcoming a new class. In this atmosphere, Audra swam like a happy fish looking to Hanson’s every need. Upstairs, she told me to quit acting like a member of the family: I was just a boarder. “And a fairy.”
Hanson’s law firm, three men, was small but it enjoyed a statewide reputation. That it had never departed this modest town in the generations following its founding by Hanson’s great-grandfather gave it an old-fashioned dignity unshared by high-powered competition elsewhere. It was still a prestigious place to have one’s legal work done, and this reputation was reflected in the decorum of the partners, who dressed with nostalgic severity and always paused before answering questions. I don’t know how else to say this, but the longer Audra was in the house the more peculiar were Hanson’s observations of his partners: one came to be described as “slow” and the other, now near retirement, was astonishingly referred to as a “prize boob.” A far cry from the collegiality of old. These comments left Shirley wide-eyed, and their being offered in Audra’s presence gave them an effect not experienced in this household before. Hanson had always seemed so somber, politely somber, though it’s true he was jollier these days, despite the new sarcasm, and his clothes brighter. His partners now looked grimly drab in his company. When Ton Yik Tailors came through that fall, Hanson ordered some high-spirited and entirely ghastly plaid sport clothes. Families — in this case households — are always evolving; on balance, ours was now more pleasant, that is, livelier. A pretty young woman always has this effect on groups, and Audra was very pretty. Anyone could see that she was slowly turning Karl Hanson into an idiot.
I came in from class wet from a spring snow flurry, my books damp and my worn-out shoes letting water into my socks. I went straight upstairs to change into something dry and warm. Audra was waiting for me in the hallway. She was leaning against the wall, her hands behind her at the small of her back and palms pressed to the wall; her chin was on her chest and she was regarding me with patronizing amusement. The single low-wattage lightbulb that frugally illuminated the hallway gave the scene an old-time Hollywood quality. “I have a small word with you?”
“Sure,” I said, simply hating my all-purpose enthusiasm.
“I’m thinking you show much fondness for Mrs. Hanson.”
“Yes,” I barked, “very fond. Very nice lady.”
“Ooh no, is not what I mean. Is what I mean is fond.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, is not important. Is more important that Mrs. Hanson is fond of you.”
“Well, that would be nice.”
She snickered and I found it a bawdy snicker; curiously I noticed that I was morally indignant at this insinuation when I barely thought of anything besides sex with Mrs. Hanson, who exuded the ripe sensuality of early middle age. It proved another opportunity for Audra to one-up me: “I just hope the two of you don’t upset that nice man!” she cried, turning abruptly into her room and slamming the door. It worked: Karl Hanson was a fine man and I felt guilty.
As part of my obligations to the Hansons, I seemed to be something of a yard boy, for Shirley was a passionate but careless gardener. Before I arrived at the Hanson house, she had made a terrific effort to renew the perennials around the place — and there were many little flower beds under windows, around airyways and trees, along the stone sidewalk and between the house and the garage, which had a trotting-horse weather vane. But she couldn’t quite remember where she put things, and so in springtime she was consumed with mystery and anticipation as she awaited the appearance of flowers.
“I really don’t like spring,” she said to me as I followed her with an armful of tools — a forked implement for digging out weeds, pruning shears in three sizes, and an empty watering can. “Spring isn’t about hope for the coming season. It’s about being sick of winter.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Shut up.”