students like him over the years, seething, humorless, unattractive boys who made few friends and suffered, again and again, the humiliating passion of unrequited love.
“You may.”
The rest fled behind him. The TV went on and she imagined Stuart hulking over it even before she heard Fran tell him to get out of the way.
Tom still had his hand on hers. He lifted his face, and for a moment, before he could master it, she saw the question, her own pounding question. She wished she could offer him the answer but she couldn’t, and in her fear she turned away, and when shelooked back it was gone. Still holding her hand, he asked her to follow him.
He led her past their children to the bedroom. All her boxes had vanished. Her clothes were in drawers, her dresses on hangers in the closet. In the far corner, on either side of her desk, were two tall bookcases. All her books stood neatly on the shelves.
“I knew you needed them, since you had all those built-in ones in your old place. I just put everything in alphabetically, but you probably have a much more sophisticated way of arranging your books.”
“Yes, much.” She tried to smile at him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on her boxes remaining packed, things remaining temporary, reversible. “How did you do all this?”
“I got back from Springfield at three. And I’d already stained the wood last weekend.”
“You made these?” She ran her fingers along the edge of a shelf. She couldn’t identify the wood but it was a lovely burnished color and sanded to silk. Each side of the top shelf had been carved into long narrow birds. “Herons,” she whispered.
Behind her he shut the door and flopped onto the bed.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, still standing.
“You’re beautiful.” He sat up and pulled the butcher’s twine from her hair. He spread the mass of it (how she had always hated this bulk of frizz, so inexpressive of her and her love of order) from shoulder to shoulder and stroked it with his wide warm hand from the top of her head to the middle of her back. He eased her down on the bed and continued to touch her head and face. This time, he didn’t speak at all. His kisses were gentle on her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. Even his mustache was soft. She could feel the bourbon in her system protecting her, obscuring the path back. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and fingers carefully, as if it might break, and desire, that elusive bird, fluttered faintly. Then he got up, snapped the lock in place, and everything died inside her once again.
“I love you, Vida,” he said when he finally gave up. “We’ll figure all this out.” He pulled her naked chest to his and closed his eyes.
Maybe she slept, she wasn’t sure. The light was still on. Tom was still beside her, though his grip has loosened. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead at a framed drawing on the far wall she’d never noticed before, a pencil sketch of an infant wrapped loosely in a blanket and held low in its mother’s arms, its head resting heavily on her bent wrist, her breast depleted at his cheek. The mother had no head; her figure began at the small knobs of her shoulders and disappeared at the waist, behind the blanket’s folds. Her hands were her most expressive feature, the fingers longer than possible, spread carefully above and beneath the sleeping child. Vida understood that Tom had drawn it, that the wife and infant had once been his.
Draw him! Draw his face, Peter had cried all those years ago, and when she refused, tears soaked his collar and bright blotches appeared on his neck but he wouldn’t give up. Please! She’d grabbed the pencil and made three thick lines of hair then, her fingers shaking by now, smashed the lead to the paper four more times—first the mouth, then a low bent nose, and finally the eyes, two short vertical lines that nearly punctured the page, eyes that conveyed not cruelty or pain or whatever had made that man do what
“You may.”
The rest fled behind him. The TV went on and she imagined Stuart hulking over it even before she heard Fran tell him to get out of the way.
Tom still had his hand on hers. He lifted his face, and for a moment, before he could master it, she saw the question, her own pounding question. She wished she could offer him the answer but she couldn’t, and in her fear she turned away, and when shelooked back it was gone. Still holding her hand, he asked her to follow him.
He led her past their children to the bedroom. All her boxes had vanished. Her clothes were in drawers, her dresses on hangers in the closet. In the far corner, on either side of her desk, were two tall bookcases. All her books stood neatly on the shelves.
“I knew you needed them, since you had all those built-in ones in your old place. I just put everything in alphabetically, but you probably have a much more sophisticated way of arranging your books.”
“Yes, much.” She tried to smile at him. She hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on her boxes remaining packed, things remaining temporary, reversible. “How did you do all this?”
“I got back from Springfield at three. And I’d already stained the wood last weekend.”
“You made these?” She ran her fingers along the edge of a shelf. She couldn’t identify the wood but it was a lovely burnished color and sanded to silk. Each side of the top shelf had been carved into long narrow birds. “Herons,” she whispered.
Behind her he shut the door and flopped onto the bed.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, still standing.
“You’re beautiful.” He sat up and pulled the butcher’s twine from her hair. He spread the mass of it (how she had always hated this bulk of frizz, so inexpressive of her and her love of order) from shoulder to shoulder and stroked it with his wide warm hand from the top of her head to the middle of her back. He eased her down on the bed and continued to touch her head and face. This time, he didn’t speak at all. His kisses were gentle on her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. Even his mustache was soft. She could feel the bourbon in her system protecting her, obscuring the path back. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and fingers carefully, as if it might break, and desire, that elusive bird, fluttered faintly. Then he got up, snapped the lock in place, and everything died inside her once again.
“I love you, Vida,” he said when he finally gave up. “We’ll figure all this out.” He pulled her naked chest to his and closed his eyes.
Maybe she slept, she wasn’t sure. The light was still on. Tom was still beside her, though his grip has loosened. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead at a framed drawing on the far wall she’d never noticed before, a pencil sketch of an infant wrapped loosely in a blanket and held low in its mother’s arms, its head resting heavily on her bent wrist, her breast depleted at his cheek. The mother had no head; her figure began at the small knobs of her shoulders and disappeared at the waist, behind the blanket’s folds. Her hands were her most expressive feature, the fingers longer than possible, spread carefully above and beneath the sleeping child. Vida understood that Tom had drawn it, that the wife and infant had once been his.
Draw him! Draw his face, Peter had cried all those years ago, and when she refused, tears soaked his collar and bright blotches appeared on his neck but he wouldn’t give up. Please! She’d grabbed the pencil and made three thick lines of hair then, her fingers shaking by now, smashed the lead to the paper four more times—first the mouth, then a low bent nose, and finally the eyes, two short vertical lines that nearly punctured the page, eyes that conveyed not cruelty or pain or whatever had made that man do what
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