“Oh, hey,” I say, helplessly. “Hey now. Hey now. Marlena—look at me. Please.”
She sits up and wipes her face. She stares into my eyes. “Will you stay with me, Jacob?” she says.
“Marlena—”
“Shh.” She scootches to the edge of her seat and touches a finger to my lips. Then she slides to the ground. She kneels in front of me, just inches away, her finger trembling against my lips.
“Please,” she says. “I need you.” After the slightest pause, she traces my features—tentatively, softly, barely grazing my skin. I catch my breath and close my eyes.
“Marlena—”
“Don’t say anything,” she says softly. Her fingers flutter their way around my ear and down the back of my neck. I shudder. Every hair on my body is standing on end.
When her hands move to my shirt, I open my eyes. She undoes the buttons slowly, methodically. I watch her, knowing I should stop her. But I can’t. I am helpless.
When my shirt is open she pulls it free of my trousers and looks me in the eye. She leans forward and brushes her lips past mine—so softly it’s not even a kiss, merely contact. She pauses for just a second, keeping her lips so close I can feel her breath on my face. Then she leans in and kisses me, a gentle kiss, tentative but lingering. The next kiss is stronger still, the next one even more so, and before I know it I’m kissing back, clutching her face in both my hands as she runs her fingers over my chest and down my body. When she reaches for my trousers, I gasp. She pauses, tracing the outline of my erection.
She stops. I am reeling, teetering on my knees. Still staring into my eyes, she takes my hands and brings them to her lips. She presses a kiss into each palm and then places my hands on her breasts.
“Touch me, Jacob.”
I am doomed, finished.
Her breasts are small and round, like lemons. I cup them, running my thumbs over them and feeling her nipples contract under the cotton of her dress. I crush my bruised mouth to hers, running my hands over her rib cage, her waist, her hips, her thighs—
When she undoes my trousers and takes me in her hand, I pull away.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice cracking. “Please. Let me be inside you.”
Somehow, we make it to the bed. When I finally sink into her, I cry out.
Afterward, I curl around her like a spoon. We lie in silence until darkness falls, and then, haltingly, she begins to talk. She slides her feet between my ankles, plays with my fingertips, and before long the words are pouring out. She speaks without need or even room for response, so I simply hold her and stroke her hair. She talks of the pain, grief, and horror of the past four years; of learning to cope with being the wife of a man so violent and unpredictable his touch made her skin crawl and of thinking, until quite recently, that she’d finally managed to do that. And then, finally, of how my appearance had forced her to realize she hadn’t learned to cope at all.
When she finally falls silent, I continue to stroke her, running my hands gently over her hair, her shoulders, her arms, her hips. Then I start to talk. I tell her about my childhood and my mother’s apricot rugelach. I tell her about starting to go on rounds with my father during my teen years and of how proud he was when I was accepted into Cornell. I tell her about Cornell, and Catherine, and how I thought that was love. I tell her about Old Mr. McPherson running my parents off the side of the bridge, and the bank taking our home, and how I broke down and ran out of the exam hall when all the heads lost their faces.
In the morning, we make love again. This time she takes my hand and guides my fingers, moving them against her flesh. At first I don’t understand, but when she trembles and rises to my touch I realize what she’s showing me and want to cry with joy at the knowledge of it.
Afterward, she lies nestled against me, her hair tickling my face. I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.
I want.
I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I’m afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
Marlena stirs suddenly. Then she jerks upright and grabs my watch from the bedside table.
“Oh Jesus,” she says, dropping it and swinging her legs around.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
“It’s already noon. I’ve got to get back,” she says.
She darts to the bathroom and shuts the door. A moment later the toilet flushes and water runs. Then she bursts out the door, rushing around scooping clothing from the floor.
“Marlena, wait,” I say, getting up.
“I can’t. I have to perform,” she says, struggling with her stockings.
I come up behind her and take her shoulders in my hands. “Marlena, please.”
She stops and turns slowly to face me. She looks first at my chest and then at the floor.
I stare down at her, suddenly tongue-tied. “Last night you said, ‘I need you.’ You never said the word ‘love,’ so I only know how I feel.” I swallow hard, blinking at the part in her hair. “I love you, Marlena. I love you with my heart and soul, and I want to be with you.”
She continues to face the floor.
“Marlena?”
She lifts her head. There are tears in her eyes. “I love you, too,” she whispers. “I think I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. But don’t you see? I’m married to August.”
“We can fix that.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I want to be with you. If that’s what you also want, we’ll find a way.”
There’s a long silence. “I’ve never wanted anything more in all my life,” she says finally.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her.
“We’ll have to leave the show,” I say, wiping her tears with my thumbs.
She nods, sniffling.
“But not until Providence.”
“Why there?”
“Because that’s where Camel’s son is meeting us. He’s taking him home.”
“Can’t Walter look after him until then?”
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against hers. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
“Uncle Al called me in yesterday. He wants me to persuade you to go back to August. He made threats.”
“Well, of course he did. He’s Uncle Al.”
“No, I mean he was threatening to redlight Walter and Camel.”
“Oh, that’s just talk,” she says. “Don’t pay any attention. He’d never have anyone redlighted.”
“Says who? August? Uncle Al?”
She looks up, startled.
“Do you remember when the railroad authority came out in Davenport?” I say. “Six men went missing from the Flying Squadron the night before.”
She frowns. “I thought the railroad authority came out because someone was trying to cause trouble for Uncle Al.”
“No, they came out because half a dozen men got redlighted. Camel was supposed to be among them.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then puts her hands over her face. “Dear God. Dear God. I’ve been so stupid.”
“Not stupid. Not stupid at all. It’s hard to conceive of such evil,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
She presses her face to my chest. “Oh, Jacob—what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say, stroking her hair. “We’ll figure something out, but we’re going to have to be very, very careful.”
WE RETURN TO the lot separately, surreptitiously. I carry her suitcase until a block away, and then watch as she crosses the lot and disappears into her dressing tent. I hang around for a few minutes in case August turns out to be inside. When there aren’t any obvious signs of trouble, I return to the ring stock car.