hold of me and give me a good yank.” She thinks of the weeds in her garden. Is she like one of those weeds, in a place she doesn’t belong?
Walter laughs. “Really? A good yank? If life did that to you, you’d spank its backside and send it home.”
“No,” she says. Her fists rise to her waist, her feet planted wide. “You don’t understand. It’s insulting that you should laugh at me.” Her cheeks burn.
He places his large hands on her shoulders, shaking his head with kind, narrowed eyes.
“Dearest. I am not the enemy.”
“I didn’t say . . . I didn’t think . . .”
He leans forward and kisses her brow. His lips are cool and tender. She hears his breath catch. What is he feeling? How sweet his touch! Her heart pounds and she is ashamed to realize she desperately wishes he’d take her chin and kiss her lips too. She would part her lips. She would draw in the sweetness of his mouth. She would be unafraid. Instead, he steps away with a sigh, finds the ashtray on her desk and stubs out his cigarette.
“Well,” he says, “it’s late, dear. And I have to travel in the morning.”
“I wish you didn’t.” She tries to control the quaver in her voice.
As he leaves the darkened library, desire for him cuts through to her marrow. Later, bound with craving, she finds herself wandering down the hall to his room. She is wearing only her nightgown, barefoot. Her hair is loosened. It is a warm night, and she can hear the crickets rasping outside. Urging her on. Perhaps it is better to risk and make a mistake than to do nothing. She has spent a lifetime doing nothing. Living in a ghostly marriage. Watching other women bloom amidst the spoils of a life she will never know. If she just knocks on his door. If she just whispers, “Before you leave in the morning, do let us be closer. . . .” What is the worst that can happen? She wants to be fearless like Anna de Noailles. At his door, she stands for a long while before she raps. Two knocks. The crickets scream. The clock downstairs chimes. She can taste his lips, feels his arms. . . . But there is no answer. She raps again. And nothing. Is he so soundly asleep already? Is he somehow not in his room? Or is he simply disinterested? She is middle aged, has never been beautiful like so many of the women Walter has escorted. Her heart sinks. How foolish she feels wandering back down the hall to her maiden bed to spend a forlorn night tangled in longing.
When William naps in the afternoons, Anna takes advantage of her stay. She spends time out of the house, exploring the neighborhood. Could she live here? she asks herself. Would she fit in? She walks the boys to the park, and starts to teach them German. She befriends the librarian, Jessie Toibin, who shares books with her that she thinks might reinvigorate William. Though not a single new book has arrived in years—it’s a quaint old library—Anna finds many things that please her. On a cushioned window seat in the back of the library, overlooking a wooded knoll, Anna sometimes sits to read and finds solace.
One day, she and Jessie Toibin strike up a conversation.
“What is it you were doing in Paris all winter? I’ve seen pictures of Paris. And imagine! You’ve actually been there.”
“I’m a secretary,” Anna tells her. “For a writer.”
Jessie, who is in her early forties, biscuit plump, with steel-rimmed glasses and a sweetheart candy of a mouth, leans forward with interest.
“A writer? Someone I may have heard of?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard of her. Edith Wharton.”
“Oh my!” Jessie sits right down on the window seat next to Anna and puts her hand over her mouth. “Edith Wharton!”
Anna raises her brows. “You know of her? But you don’t have her books. I’ve looked.”
“We don’t have any books that didn’t arrive before you and I were born. But I read every word of
The House of Mirth
in
Scribner’s Magazine
. I read it twice! I saved it!” She
Walter laughs. “Really? A good yank? If life did that to you, you’d spank its backside and send it home.”
“No,” she says. Her fists rise to her waist, her feet planted wide. “You don’t understand. It’s insulting that you should laugh at me.” Her cheeks burn.
He places his large hands on her shoulders, shaking his head with kind, narrowed eyes.
“Dearest. I am not the enemy.”
“I didn’t say . . . I didn’t think . . .”
He leans forward and kisses her brow. His lips are cool and tender. She hears his breath catch. What is he feeling? How sweet his touch! Her heart pounds and she is ashamed to realize she desperately wishes he’d take her chin and kiss her lips too. She would part her lips. She would draw in the sweetness of his mouth. She would be unafraid. Instead, he steps away with a sigh, finds the ashtray on her desk and stubs out his cigarette.
“Well,” he says, “it’s late, dear. And I have to travel in the morning.”
“I wish you didn’t.” She tries to control the quaver in her voice.
As he leaves the darkened library, desire for him cuts through to her marrow. Later, bound with craving, she finds herself wandering down the hall to his room. She is wearing only her nightgown, barefoot. Her hair is loosened. It is a warm night, and she can hear the crickets rasping outside. Urging her on. Perhaps it is better to risk and make a mistake than to do nothing. She has spent a lifetime doing nothing. Living in a ghostly marriage. Watching other women bloom amidst the spoils of a life she will never know. If she just knocks on his door. If she just whispers, “Before you leave in the morning, do let us be closer. . . .” What is the worst that can happen? She wants to be fearless like Anna de Noailles. At his door, she stands for a long while before she raps. Two knocks. The crickets scream. The clock downstairs chimes. She can taste his lips, feels his arms. . . . But there is no answer. She raps again. And nothing. Is he so soundly asleep already? Is he somehow not in his room? Or is he simply disinterested? She is middle aged, has never been beautiful like so many of the women Walter has escorted. Her heart sinks. How foolish she feels wandering back down the hall to her maiden bed to spend a forlorn night tangled in longing.
When William naps in the afternoons, Anna takes advantage of her stay. She spends time out of the house, exploring the neighborhood. Could she live here? she asks herself. Would she fit in? She walks the boys to the park, and starts to teach them German. She befriends the librarian, Jessie Toibin, who shares books with her that she thinks might reinvigorate William. Though not a single new book has arrived in years—it’s a quaint old library—Anna finds many things that please her. On a cushioned window seat in the back of the library, overlooking a wooded knoll, Anna sometimes sits to read and finds solace.
One day, she and Jessie Toibin strike up a conversation.
“What is it you were doing in Paris all winter? I’ve seen pictures of Paris. And imagine! You’ve actually been there.”
“I’m a secretary,” Anna tells her. “For a writer.”
Jessie, who is in her early forties, biscuit plump, with steel-rimmed glasses and a sweetheart candy of a mouth, leans forward with interest.
“A writer? Someone I may have heard of?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard of her. Edith Wharton.”
“Oh my!” Jessie sits right down on the window seat next to Anna and puts her hand over her mouth. “Edith Wharton!”
Anna raises her brows. “You know of her? But you don’t have her books. I’ve looked.”
“We don’t have any books that didn’t arrive before you and I were born. But I read every word of
The House of Mirth
in
Scribner’s Magazine
. I read it twice! I saved it!” She
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