In the bathroom mirror she inspected her eye. The flesh around it was bluish black, swollen so that the eye was almost shut. When she lifted cold water to it, the eye closed; for a time she could not get it open. The eye burned furiously and she thought: So that’s how it feels. That’s what it’s like.
Going to the station was out of the question. She wondered how long the discoloration and swelling would remain. Two days? Three? And in addition the urgent, ceaseless sex had worn her out. Once, in her high school days, she and two other girls had hiked to the top of Mount Tamalpais. At the end of that hike, she had been tired, but she was more tired now. This was complete; this was absolute exhaustion.
She fixed coffee. While the coffee heated, she lit a cigarette. By the time the coffee was ready, she felt better. She ate a little cottage cheese and dry toast, drank the coffee, and then washed the dishes. Her head ached and she swallowed two aspirin tablets, standing at the sink in her robe, her feet bare. After that she walked back into the bedroom.
In the bed Art Emmanual slept on. One arm was thrown out, the hand open, fingers trailing from the bed. His clothes, with her clothes, were piled upon the chair by the bed. He did not look tired at all, and she thought to herself: This was what she had talked about. This vitality.
Now, she thought, she had it. Here, sleeping away in the bed, here it was.
From the chair she took some of her clothes and started to dress. But she did not have the strength. The time was eight-thirty. She went into the living room and telephoned the station.
“Hello?” she said. “This is Patricia.”
Ted Haynes said, “What is it, Patricia?”
“I wonder if it would be all right if I didn’t come in today?” Her voice was a rasp; she did not have to force it. “I’ve got the flu or something. What do you think? I haven’t missed any time so far this year.”
Ted Haynes outlined a long list of medicines to buy, told her to stay in bed until she was well, wished her good luck, and then hung up.
Stay in bed, she thought. It was funny. It was really funny.
Returning to the bedroom, she tossed her robe over the chair with the rest of the clothes and then, lifting the covers back, got into bed beside the sleeping boy.
In the half-light of the bedroom, she leaned above him, her elbows resting on the pillow, her face close to his. Her mouth brushed across him, and she brought her hands to the sides of his face. She lifted his head with her hands, gazing down at him. Presently she pushed aside the covers and lowered herself onto him; she rested her body against his chest, his face, his legs and hips and feet. How warm he was. She felt his heart beating; it moved at her breasts, his heart deep inside him, stirring and awake. She heard him breathing; she put her ear to his chest and crouched there, listening, holding on to him. In that position she dozed.
Some time later, when the room was full of light, she was awakened by the pressure of his arms. His eyes were open and he was grinning up at her, he had taken hold of her and was holding her in his grip, clutching her where she was sore, where she hurt the most.
“Oh no,” she said. “we can’t . . . we’ve had enough.”
“Sure,” he said.
She slid away from him, but he held on to her. “You ought to be exhausted,” she said, marveling. “You ought to be dead.”
“Did you get up?” he said. “A little w-w-while ago, you were gone.”
“I ate breakfast.”
“Your eye looks awful.”
She said, “I can’t go to work. I can’t go outside like this.” Sitting up, unfastening his fingers from her, she put her hand to her face, exploring the flesh by her nose, by her brow. “Is it going down?”
“Some.”
“What can I do?”
“Just wait,” he said. “You n-n-never had a black eye?”
“No.” She lay back, her knees drawn up to keep him away. “Leave me alone,” she said. The covers scratched her cheek; he was lifting them around her, covering her. That made her feel better. “Thanks,” she said.
“You still look okay,” he said. “Even with it.”
She said, “You remember when we were up on Twin Peaks? You said you loved me.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” he said, “sure I do.”
“Then how could you hit me?” She shifted to face him. “How can you do that to somebody you love? Don’t ever do it again, Art. Promise me?”
“You were leaving.”
“I was going out. I wasn’t leaving.”
He said, “What was I s-s-supposed to do, just stand there?”
“And that knife—where did you get it? From that creepy pal of yours? You shouldn’t be mixed up in things like that, Art. Don’t you know that?”
“That was the first time,” he murmured.
“Throw the damn thing away somewhere.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Will you do that? If you’re going to go around with me, you can’t do things like that. You know that, Art.”
He said nothing.
Beside him she waited, she listened. When he did not answer, she reached out her hand and placed it on his body. This was not so bad, surely. This was nothing to complain about. She lay in bed, and time passed; hours went by. The sun climbed in the sky, and the room became warmer, brighter. The air became stuffy.
Art said, “Hey, I’m hungry. How long are we going to stay here? Let’s get up.”
“You won’t always be able to do this, Art,” she said. Restlessly, he shifted about in the bed. “It must be almost noon.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s eleven-thirty.”
She rolled over until she lay against him. She put her arm under him, bearing his weight on her wrist, her elbow. Then she drew herself up onto him, but only her head and shoulders; with her hand she held him away from her.
“No,” she said. “I just want to look at you.”
That seemed to trouble him; he did not enjoy being looked at. Gradually he became embarrassed.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“I don’t know, It’s so light in here.”
“The light?” She raised herself up. “Oh,” she said. “You think it’s wrong for me to see you. Is that it?”
“I just don’t understand why, you like to lie around doing nothing.”
But still she sat, resting back on her heels, her bare knees jutting out before her, her palms resting on her thighs. And his dismay increased. “There’s nothing wrong with this,” she said. “Are you ashamed of me? Are you ashamed of yourself?” She tossed the covers away from him; the covers settled to the floor, leaving both of them uncovered. “You have a nice body . . . you should be proud of it.”
He got up, picked up his clothes, and dressed. And she watched that, too.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
Remaining on the bed, she said, “I just want to lie here.”
“Come on!” His face was sullen.
She said, “Lie here with me.” Stretched out on the bed, she lifted up her hand, reaching toward him. “I thought you were insatiable.” His discomfort struck her as ironic. “Now that I’m rested up, you don’t want to. Or do you just want to do it at night?”
“You’re only supposed to do it at night,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s dark,” he said.
She laughed. The bizarre modesty . . . the stilted ideas. Old teachings: concealment and—the word that came to her mind was prudery.
During the night he had battled with her until she was sore and worn out, but now, in the sunlight, he refused even to stay in the room.