any more. Over her salad, she felt like weeping.
“Robert, I love you,” she said in the middle of something he was saying.
He made a sound between a laugh and an exclamation of surprise, and then she was sitting on the red couch, leaning back against several pillows. Robert was saying in a very steady tone, “. . . some coffee. Here. It’s good strong
espresso
. I shouldn’t have given you that second Scotch. But you haven’t had much. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
Words, words, words went through her head and she could not utter any of them.
Robert was walking up and down with a cigarette, stopping at the round coffee table to sip from his cup. She thought, we’re married and we live here, and I’m quite used to going to bed in the same bed with Robert, and he’s quite used to me. She watched his figure turn and turn again, his footsteps almost soundless on the carpet. He was not looking at her. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace. She closed her eyes on the moving white of his shirt and slept. She awakened at his touch on her shoulder. He had put a plaid lap rug over her, and he was sitting by her on the couch.
“Feeling better? It’s only eleven-thirty. I thought you might want to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“Oh—well—sleep down here. No sheets, but I can put some on in a minute.” Then he looked confused, wandered to the chair where a book lay face down on the seat. He closed the book and put it on a table. The fire was a bed of orange-red embers. He turned to her, looking at her as if he expected her to change her mind, to have waked up more and to say that she would be going, after all.
“Do you have any pajamas?” she asked.
“I guess so. They’ll be big.”
She took a shower, mechanically washed her stockings and hung them over the shower rod, used toothpaste and scrubbed her teeth with her finger, wanting to use one of his two toothbrushes, but not daring. Her shame at having invited herself had become something else—a prolonged act of audacity she had to carry through, something she might wince at thinking about later. When she came out of thebathroom, Robert was standing in robe and pajamas, holding a glass of milk.
“I thought you might like this,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’d like another glass of wine.”
He went to get it from the kitchen. She stood watching him pour it into one of the stemmed glasses they had used at the table. The kitchen was tidy again. He had done the dishes. She set the wineglass on the coffee table he had pulled up by the bed, got into bed and sipped the wine. Robert pulled another piece of wood on the embers.
“Not that you’ll need it for warmth, I hope, but it looks nice,” he said. “What time would you like to get up?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Fine. That’s my time, too. Good night, Jenny.”
“Good night.”
He stood looking at her, his head slightly tilted, his face smiling, his hands in the pockets of his robe. To Jenny, it was perfect, whether he wanted to kiss her or not, it was perfect just to be in a bed in his house, to be in a house in which he slept and in which they breathed the same air. She closed her eyes. She was lying on her stomach, her cheek on one hand, and she meant to open her eyes and see him again, standing in his blue striped robe. When she opened her eyes, it was dark and he was gone, and only a glow came from the balcony upstairs. She felt that no more than five minutes had passed. But time had disappeared. Maybe she would stay awake all night and maybe she would sleep. Both possibilities were pleasant. It was neither night nor day. She felt simply that she existed. The right word for it was eternity.
9
On the evening when Greg noticed that Jenny’s car was not at her house by one A.M ., that her house was dark, he went back to his apartment in Humbert Corners and waited until twenty of two, then drove by again. Her car was still not there. Neither was it at Susie Escham’s.
“Robert, I love you,” she said in the middle of something he was saying.
He made a sound between a laugh and an exclamation of surprise, and then she was sitting on the red couch, leaning back against several pillows. Robert was saying in a very steady tone, “. . . some coffee. Here. It’s good strong
espresso
. I shouldn’t have given you that second Scotch. But you haven’t had much. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
Words, words, words went through her head and she could not utter any of them.
Robert was walking up and down with a cigarette, stopping at the round coffee table to sip from his cup. She thought, we’re married and we live here, and I’m quite used to going to bed in the same bed with Robert, and he’s quite used to me. She watched his figure turn and turn again, his footsteps almost soundless on the carpet. He was not looking at her. He threw his cigarette into the fireplace. She closed her eyes on the moving white of his shirt and slept. She awakened at his touch on her shoulder. He had put a plaid lap rug over her, and he was sitting by her on the couch.
“Feeling better? It’s only eleven-thirty. I thought you might want to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“Oh—well—sleep down here. No sheets, but I can put some on in a minute.” Then he looked confused, wandered to the chair where a book lay face down on the seat. He closed the book and put it on a table. The fire was a bed of orange-red embers. He turned to her, looking at her as if he expected her to change her mind, to have waked up more and to say that she would be going, after all.
“Do you have any pajamas?” she asked.
“I guess so. They’ll be big.”
She took a shower, mechanically washed her stockings and hung them over the shower rod, used toothpaste and scrubbed her teeth with her finger, wanting to use one of his two toothbrushes, but not daring. Her shame at having invited herself had become something else—a prolonged act of audacity she had to carry through, something she might wince at thinking about later. When she came out of thebathroom, Robert was standing in robe and pajamas, holding a glass of milk.
“I thought you might like this,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’d like another glass of wine.”
He went to get it from the kitchen. She stood watching him pour it into one of the stemmed glasses they had used at the table. The kitchen was tidy again. He had done the dishes. She set the wineglass on the coffee table he had pulled up by the bed, got into bed and sipped the wine. Robert pulled another piece of wood on the embers.
“Not that you’ll need it for warmth, I hope, but it looks nice,” he said. “What time would you like to get up?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Fine. That’s my time, too. Good night, Jenny.”
“Good night.”
He stood looking at her, his head slightly tilted, his face smiling, his hands in the pockets of his robe. To Jenny, it was perfect, whether he wanted to kiss her or not, it was perfect just to be in a bed in his house, to be in a house in which he slept and in which they breathed the same air. She closed her eyes. She was lying on her stomach, her cheek on one hand, and she meant to open her eyes and see him again, standing in his blue striped robe. When she opened her eyes, it was dark and he was gone, and only a glow came from the balcony upstairs. She felt that no more than five minutes had passed. But time had disappeared. Maybe she would stay awake all night and maybe she would sleep. Both possibilities were pleasant. It was neither night nor day. She felt simply that she existed. The right word for it was eternity.
9
On the evening when Greg noticed that Jenny’s car was not at her house by one A.M ., that her house was dark, he went back to his apartment in Humbert Corners and waited until twenty of two, then drove by again. Her car was still not there. Neither was it at Susie Escham’s.
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