“Thanks for reminding me,” Carl said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his manuscript in his lap. He ran his fingers over the rough paper, smoothing it down with automatic care. After a while he got to his feet again. He moved toward the door. “Well, I guess I—”
“Don’t leave.”
“But I—”
“I don’t want you to go.” Barbara did not look at him. Her voice was thin and hard. A sharp command. He sat down awkwardly, the bed springs sagging and groaning under him. Tiredness seeped over him. Why did she want him to stay? What for?
He laid his manuscript down on the floor. He was too tired to understand. Perhaps later on, in the morning, when he had time to think it all over, when he could fit everything together into one picture—
He leaned back, resting against the wall. He closed his eyes. Barbara stood at the window staring out, her arms folded. Carl yawned. Soon he would go, when it was all right to go. After a while. His body was like lead. He seemed to be sinking down into the bed. Like lead that had been dropped in the ocean. Down and down. He sighed, stretching out.
He must have dozed. All at once it was later.
He opened his eyes. He was stiff and cold. His head ached. Barbara was no longer standing at the window. She was sitting on the bed by him, close by. She was doing something very rapidly and silently, bending over, her hands moving. What was she doing?
He stirred, lifting up a little.
She was taking off her sandals. She unfastened her sandals and put them over in the corner, by the end of the bed. She stood up and unbuttoned her blouse. She slipped her blouse from her and hung it over the back of a chair. She unzipped her slacks. She stepped out of them and folded them into the seat of the chair.
Carl must have made a sound. Suddenly she turned, looking intently down at him. Her face was full of hunger. Full of avid desire.
He was astonished. The astonishment gave way to shock. She was gazing down at him, twitching with naked yearning, her body taut and rigid. Was he dreaming?
“What—what time is it?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock! Good Lord. I should go.”
She said nothing. She stood in front of him in her underclothes, her body hard and pale. Some of the wild hunger had faded from her face. Her face was cold, sharp. It frightened him. Fear moved through him, gaining force.
“I have to go.” He struggled to get to his feet.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s late.”
Barbara was silent. At last she spoke. Her voice was calm, detached. As if she were far away, remote from him. Lost in thought. “You know,” she said, “You and I are the only ones here. For miles around. I’ve been thinking about it. Except for Verne, of course. But he’s asleep.”
The room was very still. Outside the window the night was cold. He could hear the night wind moving through the trees, stirring the branches together. There was no other sound. Wind and silence. Cold darkness. It was the truth. They were the only ones alive for endless miles. The brittle frozen coldness was all around them.
“Are you afraid?” Barbara said.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be. You see, it’s only that I want you so. But I wonder how you feel.”
He did not know how to answer.
“You are afraid.”
“No.”
“Carl, do you want to go? You may, if you want.”
He shook his head.
“Do you want to stay here?”
“I—” He hesitated. “I guess so. I think so.” His heart was pounding, pounding so loudly that he could hardly speak. He got to his feet and walked around the room, touching things, examining a print on the wall, the cover of a book. He took a book from the bookcase and opened it.
Finally he put the book back. His mouth and lips were dry. He moistened them with his tongue. “Could—could we talk for a while?”
Barbara did not answer.
“Couldn’t we talk?”
“Carl, why do you want to leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s cold and barren outside. Don’t you want to stay here where it’s warm? Don’t you want to be warm?”
“Sure. Yes, of course.”
She was watching him intently. In her underclothes she seemed even more naked than when he had seen her in the water, in the little artificial lake. There were goose-pimples up and down her legs, on her thighs and arms.
“Don’t you want to be with me?”
“Yes. It’s very nice here.”
Barbara took her cigarettes from her blouse. She dropped the blouse back down on the chair and lit a match. Carl watched her smoking and staring past him. Abruptly she stubbed the cigarette out against the ashtray on the table. She reached behind her, unhooking the bra. She laid the bra over her blouse on the chair. “Carl?”
“Yes.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please look at me.”
Carl looked. She had taken off all her clothes and was standing completely naked in the center of the room. Her body was pale. She was shivering in the cold. He could see her flesh ripple.
Carl looked away again. Presently there was a creaking sound. “Carl?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to come to me?”
He turned. She was lying on the bed, her naked legs raised, her arms at her sides. She was waiting for him, staring up at the ceiling.
“I—” He stood helplessly, twisting.
“Don’t you want me?”
“Yes. But I—”
“That time at the lake. When you saw me. You weren’t afraid then, were you? You were glad. I know. You didn’t run away. I could tell.”
Carl picked up his manuscript from the floor. He crossed toward the door. “I don’t want to be foolish in front of you. There are so many things I don’t know. Do we have to, now? Can’t we wait? Later—”
She rose quickly from the bed, coming toward him. “But I want you now, Carl.”
He could hear her breathing rapidly. Harsh, quick sounds. She slipped between him and the door, her breasts rising and falling.
“But I don’t know what to do!”
“I’ll show you.”
“Couldn’t we—wait?”
She shook her head. In the darkness outside the window the night wind rose, blowing through the trees. They could hear it moving, brushing the tree branches against the side of the building.
“Hear the wind,” Barbara said.
“Yes.”
Barbara reached out to the lamp. She snapped it off. The room was in darkness. Carl felt his heart begin to beat hard, slow booming beats, like an echoing thing far down in a vault. It was painful. He could hardly breathe. He was shaking all over, from cold and fear. In the darkness he could see nothing. Where was she? Where had she gone?
Her hand touched his arm. Then she was around him, warm and breathing, her body like fire. It burned him, the insistent pressure, pushing and beating against him. She was tearing at him, straining and clawing. He staggered.
She crowded him against the edge of the bed. He sat down heavily, the springs groaning under him. Now she was above him, filling the darkness, leaning over him. He slid away, struggling to his feet. He was weak with fear.
“Barbara—”
She was moving someplace in the darkness. He strained to hear. His arm touched something, the edge of the table. The ashtray fell to the floor, clinking.
She came quickly, grabbing for him. She was completely silent. There was no sound. Like a dream. Carl pulled away. Her nails left streaks of pain along his arms.
Again he could hear her breathing, panting in the cold darkness. He sensed her very near, almost by him. He put up his hands—