Acquainted with the Night (14 page)

She didn’t know what she could possibly say in reply. But she didn’t need to say anything, for as soon as he finished speaking he stalked out of her office and slammed the door loudly behind him. The sound seemed to invade her body and made her shrink in her chair. She folded her arms on her desk and laid her head down. I can’t, she thought. She was sorry about Will, but it was impossible, she was too afraid.

The very first time, she remembered, John had whispered, “Are you afraid?” And when she nodded he stroked her cheek and said, “It will be all right. I’ll take care of you.” She had grown used to him, so that the fear had shrunk very small, to the size of a shriveled pea. But then he died. He promised to take care of her but he broke his promise. She could not do it again with another, who might not take care. Even with John, twenty years, the small fear remained, each time he touched her. Sometimes it was so small, a speck at the bottom of a canyon, that she could pretend it wasn’t there. But it always was, and she came to understand that she needed it; she was grateful for it. It was the small fear that held her body together and kept her from flying completely wild and perhaps shattering. She was more afraid of what she might do, how she might be, without her small fear, her amulet, the pea under the mattress.

Vera raised her head. There was still some work to finish before she could leave. Would they wait? They were accustomed to her arriving promptly at five-fifteen. She hurried through her papers, especially careful with the account sheets, though, with Will so angry. It would be disastrous if she messed them up, and Will told Howard, and Howard began watching. There were still the hospital bills, Jean’s contact lenses, Freddy’s moped. ... At last she was finished and dashed out, not even bothering to wash her face or fix her hair, which had fallen again and hung loose down her back. Let it. It didn’t matter, with Brauer and Elemi.

It was nearly five forty-five when she reached the park entrance. They were still there, thank heaven, sitting on a bench in the shade. Elemi preferred the shade. Vera stopped in relief, panting. She had run all the way. When Brauer and Elemi saw her they rose instantly, joining hands, and began their early evening stroll. Of course they had to wait, Vera realized as the slow walking calmed her senses. They are not real, they are mine. They can only do what I make them do. She laughed to herself, thinking of how foolish she had been to worry. They could not go off alone. They would always be there for her, and would do only what she wished and permitted, for they were her own invention.

Brauer was especially gentle towards Elemi this evening. He stroked her hand and picked out the softest, greenest patch of grass for her to sit on. When she twisted her ankle scrambling up a rock he rubbed it tenderly between his palms to ease the pain. Elemi tossed her head back, her long fair hair streaming out on the breeze, and looked up at Brauer with a gaze full of trust and gratitude. Tears came to Vera’s eyes at the sight of them together.

Jean got her first real job, as a junior counselor at a summer camp in Maine. “What are you going to do on your vacation, Mom? Freddy will be working on the Cape, and you’ll be all alone.” They were drinking coffee together after dinner. Vera lit a cigarette and waved the smoke away from Jean, towards the open window.

“I don’t know. Probably stay home and take it easy.”

“You really ought to do something, Mom. You never go anywhere. You could visit Uncle Matt on Fire Island. They always ask you. Or take a trip. San Francisco? You’ve never been out West.”

“Maybe. I’ll see.”

The apartment was lonesome with Jean gone, but once Vera was on vacation everything would be different. She had known for weeks what she wanted to do. The last evening after work, rather than leaving them on a park bench while she went dutifully home, she brought them right along with her: out the West Side entrance, down the street, into the lobby, up in the elevator. Brauer and Elemi, as usual, were serene, undisturbed by the change. They had been so many places that new adventures did not intimidate them. Vera’s hand trembled as she fit the key in the lock. She was overcome with shyness. Should she speak? Welcome them with some joking remark? She decided definitely not. That would be going too far.

“Well, here we are,” she muttered to herself. She kicked off her shoes, turned on the air conditioner, fixed a gin and tonic, and flopped down in an armchair in an ecstasy of relaxation, solitude, and freedom.

Brauer and Elemi passed a quiet evening browsing through the books on the shelves, playing Mozart on the stereo, childishly exploring the bedrooms, Jean’s, Freddy’s, Vera’s. As for Vera, it was the most beautiful evening she had spent in years, with nothing to be done, alone and yet not alone. She lay back in her chair listening to the music while they wandered about the apartment hand in hand, and she thought of all the things the three of them would do on her month off. They would go camping in Newfoundland, surfing on the beaches of Hawaii, ambling down the stone streets of Florence in the shadow of the great cathedral, strolling in tranquillity through the rock gardens of Kyoto. It was a summer of endless possibility.

At last Vera decided to go to bed: she was very tired. Brauer and Elemi could settle down anywhere they pleased—there was plenty of room. It was warm out and the air conditioner was not working well; she stripped off all her clothes and went to bed without a nightgown. She smoked a last cigarette as she did the daily crossword puzzle, then turned off the bedside lamp. The dark seemed to make the room warmer and almost fragrant, as if there were flowers not far off. Her body felt light and smooth under the cool sheet. She remembered John and ran her hand over the sheet on his side of the double bed. It was odd how little she dwelt on John. She had thought about him so much when she was sick in the hospital that now there seemed nothing left to think about. She didn’t even miss him particularly anymore, though it had been better to sleep with him than alone. She had missed him so much during the months of his dying that now there was no missing left in her. She missed only the feeling of missing him.

Sometimes, from her great distance, she wondered if she had ever loved him. What was love? What did it feel like to love? Could real, flesh-and-blood people walk around forever holding hands, with stars in their eyes, like Brauer and Elemi? Of course not. They had to work, shop, prepare dinner, raise children. Her marriage, she judged, regarding it from her great distance, had been neither very unhappy nor very happy. It had been dull. Naturally there was a first flush of enchantment, but when that paled, it was dull, there was no use pretending otherwise. And even in that first flush of enchantment it had not been as beautiful as Brauer and Elemi. They had never gone places or done exciting things. Vera had had dreams but John was practical, and she was afraid to burden him further with her dreams. She was even a little embarrassed by them, next to his practical ways. Probably she had loved him, she decided. She had always behaved like a loving wife. Perhaps real love was dull.

She was just falling asleep when she sensed that Brauer and Elemi were in the room. Strange, she had not noticed them enter. Brauer had his hands on Elemi’s shoulders. He pulled her towards him, clasped her tightly, and kissed her long on the mouth. Vera was surprised, and a trifle amused. Aha, she thought. So they are not such innocents. Elemi’s arms closed around Brauer and she began caressing his back. Brauer bent and buried his face in her neck, roughly, and Elemi, her eyes closed, leaned her head back and gasped. Her fingers were taut and clutching at him. Vera’s eyes began to pound. No, she thought in panic. Not yet. But they didn’t stop. They sank down to the floor, where Brauer helped Elemi pull off her shirt, then put his lips to her breast. Elemi had her small white hand on the inside of his thigh. Vera shut her eyes tight but the vision remained. There was no way to get rid of them. Not yet, she tried to scream, but no sound would come. She felt herself grow inflamed, blood pounding and rushing to every surface. You want to see it, she whispered angrily. You know you want to see it. Yes, all along she had secretly wondered why, if they were so in love, they never made love. They must have done it behind her back, like naughty children. Why were they showing her now? Why now, she wanted to scream at them. But of course they would not hear. The pounding of her blood was unbearable. Her eyes were hot and every inch of her skin ached as she watched, for now they were intertwined in another long kiss, arms and legs groping, seizing. Vera placed a hand beneath her heart to calm herself, but the warm touch only made the throbbing worse. If it kept on she would soon burst from her skin.

Furious at herself, she snarled, If you want to see it so badly then take a good look. They were completely naked now. Vera cried out in fright—Brauer was so strong and hard, Elemi so white and frail. His fingers disappeared between her legs; Vera’s spine jerked in a spasm of terror. Elemi seemed nearly faint in her abandon. In the park so pretty and childlike, now she had her legs spread apart, with her arms clinging around Brauer’s neck and her open lips reaching for his. Then he was on top of her. Vera stiffened. Don’t hurt Elemi, she whispered. Don’t. Don’t hurt. He began to push. She could see Elemi’s face very clearly, the tight tendons of her arched neck, the trembling bluish-white of her eyelids, her mouth open as if in shock. Sweat glistened on Elemi’s forehead. Brauer kept pushing, merciless, rhythmic. Elemi’s face was so strained and twisted, Vera could not tell if it was misery or joy. Her own body began moving up and down in rhythm with Brauer’s pushing and she could not stop it. No, not yet, she cried, but she was powerless to stop herself or them. They had escaped her. She had escaped herself.

On and on Brauer pushed—would he never stop? Vera ached to know what Elemi was feeling, poor Elemi, straining with him, pounding up and down on the floor so hard her frail body made a soft thudding sound. Was that wild face twisted in misery or joy? Somewhere within her she remembered that Elemi could feel only what she wished her to feel, yet Vera was powerless, caught in their unstoppable rhythm, for she could not choose between misery or joy. Brauer kept pushing, and Elemi’s face kept the terrible riddle, till Vera herself finally erupted from the inside out, shattering the air around her.

When it was finished she leaned back weakly and wiped her streaming brow with the back of her hand, amazed to have survived. Her body was utterly limp and exhausted, but when she focused her eyes she saw that they, the dream, strained on. Still he pushed without respite and still she thudded beneath him. They would never stop.

I
’M NOT SORRY. I
couldn’t help it, the way she was acting with Pat. My mother, who is a draftsman (or draftsperson) in an architect’s office, and Pat, who is an art teacher, somehow got the idea that they could make a lot of money on the side doing bartending at fancy parties. So they’re taking a short course, one night a week. They both need the money. Pat is divorced also, and has two children to support.

Pat came over after supper with a shopping bag full of equipment, shakers and strainers and stirrers that she said she had picked up wholesale on the Bowery. “I felt like a bag lady,” she said, “carrying this around all afternoon.” My mother had stopped off at the liquor store on her way home from work. She lined up bottles on the table till our kitchen looked like a saloon. Then they put on their glasses and opened their notebooks, and practiced making these weird concoctions, Sloe Gin Fizzes, Sidecars, Sombreros, Margaritas, Harvey’s Wallbangers, etc.

I was sitting and watching them, but not really paying attention at first. What I couldn’t get out of my mind for some reason were those pregnant women I saw on the street yesterday. I swear, practically every woman on the street was pregnant—every age, race, religion, and creed. Some were already pushing strollers with babies. There was one blond girl in a long floaty Indian dress and hanging earrings. I thought she looked something like my mother might have looked years ago, and she was holding hands with this neat-looking guy with a red beard and a yellow checked shirt. I wondered if he was the one who made her pregnant. I even tried to imagine them, but as usual I was unsuccessful. If I ever get pregnant I plan to stay indoors the entire time, not only because of the way I would look, which is reason enough, but more because a pregnant person is living evidence that she actually did that with a man. Even though my mother claims everyone does it, everyone doesn’t have to go around advertising it.

I went into my mother’s room late last night when she came home from her date with James Wertheim, her new boyfriend who is a lawyer. I wasn’t exactly waiting up, I was going over my social studies for the midterm. I am too old to have a babysitter—I am a babysitter myself—but I do like to know she is there when I go to sleep. I mentioned about seeing all the pregnant women and she said, “Oh yes, that’s nothing unusual. They hibernate in winter, then they come out in spring.” Obviously she didn’t get my point, which is that it is unusual to see them all in one day. Anyhow, from pregnancy we drifted on to the subject of abortion. My mother’s opinion was that under certain circumstances abortion might be a good idea. “Try to understand, Jodie. What if it happened to you? I don’t mean right now.” She laughed a sort of awkward laugh. “But when you were, oh, eighteen or nineteen and going to college or something, and unprepared for it.” She stopped in the middle of getting undressed and sat down on her bed. It was kind of funny but nice, her sitting there in her bra and panty hose in the middle of the night, talking so earnestly about this topic.

I told her that in my opinion abortion is basically murder. I don’t see how you can get around that. “Anyhow,” I said, “it couldn’t happen to me.”

My mother crossed her legs in the lotus position and smiled. She is rather small and has a youthful figure for her age, as you would need to have to get in that position. (She is thirty-four, over the hill, despite her appearance.) “What do you mean, it couldn’t happen to you?” she said. “It could happen to anyone.”