An Italian Wife by Ann Hood Page A

But how could he tell her that he was a different person from the boy he had been on the riverbank just a couple months ago?
    She grabbed his hand and held on tight, pulling him into the crowd.
    THE NIGHT BEFORE HE LEFT, they went down to the river, to the same spot. It was colder now, and already dark.
    â€œCome here,” he whispered. It was so easy to lift her onto him that he did it in one motion.
    â€œDon’t you want to do it?” she said.
    â€œLike this,” he told her.
    To his surprise, he entered her without any problem.
    Anna gasped. “It hurts like this,” she said.
    â€œNo,” he said. “Relax.” He tried to get her to rock back and forth on him. But she started to cry again. Carmine thought of Eva Peretsky, the way she’d thrown her head back and moved on him. “Just bounce on it,” he said impatiently. “It will make you feel good.”
    â€œWhat am I?” Anna said. “A whore? It doesn’t feel good. I hate it.”
    â€œIt isn’t bad to like it,” he said. “I want you to like it too.”
    â€œWhat happened to you in Coney Island?”
    He looked at her face and imagined she was Eva Peretsky. “Come here,” he said, pulling her face down to meet his. He kissed her, and tried on his own to simulate that movement that had made Eva say, “I am here.” He clutched onto Anna’s ass, trying to get her to that same place. But she didn’t. When he came, he thought of Eva, and groaned so loud that Anna told him to shut up.
    The next morning, as he lay in bed, he heard her calling him. Carmine went to the window and saw Anna, still in her nightdress, shivering. She had the same brown sweater on as before, and her shoes and stockings. The sky was still dark, with distant hints of pink and red. He pulled on his pants and a shirt and met her outside under the cherry tree. He lit a cigarette and offered her one, but she shook her head.
    â€œPlease don’t die,” she said.
    â€œI won’t,” he told her. She was the type of girl who took comfort in empty promises like this. Girls around the world were asking this same thing of men, knowing there was no choice in it. Perhaps Eva had asked her husband not to die, but he had anyway, killing her, too.
    â€œPromise?” Anna said.
    Carmine nodded.
    â€œI thought,” Anna said, working out a snarl in her hair, “I thought you might want to do it one more time before you go. Men like it, I know that.”
    It struck him that perhaps she believed he would die, to offer herself again like this.
    Carmine took her face in his hands and kissed her. He knew a man and woman could kiss for hours. He knew that kissing built passion. Maybe if he kissed her until the sun came up fully, she would enjoy it too. But she was fidgeting, eager to get it done.
    He unbuttoned her sweater and reached his hand inside her nightgown to touch her breasts.
    He pushed her against the cherry tree too roughly, and bent her over, moving his hand under her nightgown. There. The Garden of Eden. He found the spot and began to rub, slowly and methodically.
    She protested, but he kept up the same rhythm. He felt her growing wet. He heard her breathing come in small, short breaths. Carmine pressed against her and kept rubbing.
    â€œStop,” she said, and as soon as she said it, he felt it, that shiver running right through her. She pressed against his hand, as if begging for more.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” he heard her say. “What happened to you on Coney Island?”
    Smiling, Carmine pushed into her.
    EVA TOOK HIM in her hands and began to move up and down. Carmine closed his eyes and gave a final thrust, coming at last.
    â€œEva,” he said.
    He reached out for her, but nothing was there.
    â€œEva?” he said, hearing the panic rise in his voice. Sticky and hot and wet, he got out of bed. The sun had started to rise. He could see it from