So I said good morning to the birds-robins, all of them, whether they knew it or not-and I filled my lungs with fresh air, and I decided that at that very moment my wife and her roomie were in bed together. Call it a psychic flash.
I turned toward the shed, and then I turned away from the shed, and then I said the hell with the shed. I started toward the back door of the overly charming Alpine hut, and then I said the hell with that as well, and I walked along the far side of the house until I came to Rhoda’s room.
When your nearest neighbor is Smoky the Bear, you don’t go berserk about drawing shades. Rhoda’s window shade was not all the way up, but neither was it all the way down. I stood between a wisteria vine and a pussy willow bush (yes, honestly) and looked in the window, and was not at all surprised to see them both there.
They were sort of between acts, I guess. Priss was lying on her back with her head on a pillow. Rhoda was sitting upright smoking a cigarette, one leg curled under her, the other extended. There is a Picasso blue period painting, I think of two acrobats, in which exactly the same positions and attitudes are held. I think it is interesting that I was aware of this, because in terms other than those of pure art this little tableau was driving me out of my tree.
Rhoda held her cigarette to Prissy’s lips. Prissy puffed on it. Rhoda took the cigarette back again, put it in her own mouth, and put her hand between Priss’ legs and put a finger or two up Prissy’s cunt. She fingered her idly in this fashion until Priss lifted her head enough to get her mouth on one of Rhoda’s tits. I don’t remember which one. You see one, you’ve seen ’em both.
And here I was, Munro Leaf’s watchbird. Here is a watchbird watching two lesbians. Here is a watchbird watching YOU. Were YOU a lesbian last month?
If not, what are you waiting for?
I don’t know what I was waiting for. I waited for it a long time, whatever it was, and I stood there watching them do divine things to each other with a feeling of excitement and delight that was not exclusively sexual. Or maybe it was. There is a way to put this, if I can find it, because I do know what I mean, but if no one else does, I will have failed to get the point across.
Let’s try again. I was very pleased with what I was seeing. I was very delighted with it, and in an altruistic way. I thought that this was a great thing the two of them were doing, sure to please them both, and I was happy for them and proud of them for thinking of it. And I was proud of each of them, too, for being able to attract and satisfy such a perfect partner.
It’s remarkable, I suppose, that neither of them happened to look up and catch a glimpse of me. It’s not only remarkable. It’s also a damned good thing, because we would have had an epidemic of coronary occlusion, I think. I don’t suppose I spent all that much time at the window. Five or ten minutes. Probably no more than that.
I stopped watching before they got to the end of that particular paragraph, turned from them in mid-sentence, brushed against the pussy willow bush-a great name for a girl, Pussy Willow-and went back Out Back to the shed.
I picked up a pen and started drawing. I did the sketch three times until I got it just the way I wanted it. Then I sat there listening to bird calls until noon-all bird calls sound alike-at which time I generally appeared for lunch. I did not want to appear for lunch until I was expected to appear for lunch, or I might interrupt them while they were having each other for breakfast.
During lunch I excused myself to go to the toilet, and on the way back from the toilet I let myself into Rhoda’s room and left the drawing on her pillow.
RHODA
I think we all knew what was going on. I think we all knew that we knew. It was all in the air, like static electricity in a dry room, and we were shuffling our feet on the carpet and getting ready to touch each other.
That morning, while Harry was doing his Watchbird number sheltered by the pussy willow, Priss and I were conscientiously doing precisely what we had decided a day ago not to do. We were Taking Risks. We were Being Less Than Cool. We were making it, not on a Wednesday with Harry in New York, but on a Thursday with Harry Out Back in his shed.
Hard to say just whose idea it was. Probably mine. I had heard them screwing, and while they were normally noisy enough about it, that night they were truly loud; I got the impression that they had moved to the country because their sex life was too high in volume to be conducted within city limits. I lay there listening to the two of them and wanting them both, and woke up no longer listening to them but still wanting them.
I got up after Harry and before Priss. I wrapped up in a robe of hers-my bathrobes were all still somewhere out West, none had found its way into the one suitcase I brought along. I went into the kitchen and had breakfast and made a pot of real coffee. Priss always made real coffee sooner or later, but had instant coffee first at breakfast. Quel dreary-the only time I really care about coffee is first thing in the morning, and that’s the one time it’s hard to get a cup around here that tastes half decent. (Other than that, it’s a great hotel.) So I fixed my own coffee, I did, and I magnanimously poured a cup of it and carried it and a glass of orange juice to Priss’ room. I held the coffee cup so that the fumes wafted under her nose.
She opened her eyes and said, “Owr worgle breel.”
I handed her the cup, but she didn’t reach for it. I held it and she sipped at it.
“Rowrbazzle,” she said.
“Good morning.”
“Erghh.” She sipped more coffee, yawned, reached out and fumbled at the bedside table. She was reaching for her cigarettes, but in the process of getting them she knocked the alarm clock onto the floor.
“I always do that,” she said. “You would think I would learn but I don’t seem to.”
“Your one imperfection.”
“That and my excess of modesty. This is the best coffee I’ve had in ages. Did you make it extra strength or something, or is it just the delight of breakfast in bed?”
“It’s real coffee.”
“At this hour? That’s almost sinful. Oh, orange juice, too. You know, some day I’m going to start buying oranges and having freshly squeezed juice every morning.”
“Beautiful.”
“But I’ll never do it. I would have to be awake for hours before I could bring myself to squeeze an orange, and who in the hell wants to drink orange juice at five in the afternoon?”
“You used to like screwdrivers at school.”
“Some of the things I liked then I’ve lost my taste for.”
“But not all of them.”
“Yes, too true. Don’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Damn you, Rho, you can get me hot with your eyes. It’s the most fantastic thing. I feel absolutely naked.”
“Well, you absolutely are. Do you think that might have something to do with it?”
“Maybe. Just think, in six more days it’ll be Wednesday again.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’re not going to wait, are we?”
“Noway.”
“I suppose Harry’s Out Back?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He just about never comes in before noon.”
“I know.”
“What time is it?”
“About nine.”
“He could come in, though.”
I took off my robe.
“Oh, you devil. Why did you have to do that?”
“I was beginning to feel overdressed.”
“We agreed to wait until Wednesday.”
“I could die of frustration by then. I heard you fucking last night.”