it was enough. Susannah used to ponder it, feeling a furtive happiness and trying to fill in the blanks, picturing it all in her head with the help of bits of England gleaned from movies and television and books. When she came across Pemberley, Darcyâs Derbyshire mansion, in Pride and Prejudice , her excitement was so intense that, gripping the book in both hands, she split it halfway down its paperback spine.
On the long trip East, Susannah and Ivan made love once, twice, three times every night, bombarding her womb with possibilities. Ivan was full of ideas about how to manage it a third, a fourth time, how to assist the little fellowsâas he called, affectionately, his spermâon their epic journey. He jammed pillows under her pelvis, massaged her belly, proposed standing her on her head, made her assume fanciful positions that sent them both into giggling fits. Susannah became sore and tired ( tired ? Ivan seized on it, hopefully, as a pregnancy symptom), but their forced lovemaking could still ignite her sometimes. Unbelievably, there theyâd be, going through the familiar motions at two in the morning, at a campsite in, say, Ozona, Texas, for the second or third time, and it would suddenly be good, better than ever. She and Ivan would gasp with joy and kiss hungrily and fiercely, and then move slowly, very slowly and carefully, making it last, before the little fellows exploded inside her, and she and Ivan rocked together, ground their bodies together in uncomplicated ecstasy on the narrow bed, while the cats waited politely, whisker-washing on the floor until they were done.
âThere,â Ivan would say, stretching out beside her. âThat must have done it. Donât move, donât move, let the little fellows swim, quietly, quietly, come on, guys.â¦â It gave their lovemaking, Ivan said, a whole new dimension, a sane, determined, purposeful quality. âGrown-up lovemaking,â he called it, and when she accused him of being an unregenerate Catholic he protested, and explained to her with great seriousness that his ex-religion had nothing to do with anything, that in fact there could be no greater blasphemy than an ex-priest making babiesâ donât move, Susannah, lie still âthat it was the life force he was talking about, primitive nature in the raw struggling to perpetuate the species. Thatâs what he likedânot to mention the immediate, tangible result of grown-up lovemaking, i.e. the possibility of little Virginia or little Louisiana, of diapers and rubber duckies and solace in their old age.
They progressed steadily in straight lines, screwing their way across the country, aiming to see a bit of it. But they never stopped, except to eat and sleep and buy gas, letting everything go by: strange and wonderful vistas, mountains, and flat, flat stretches of dirt, promises of interesting sights advertised along the roads, state capitols and art museums and parks and hiking trails. They preferred to make haste slowly, so that each day was like the one before it: rise, let the cats out, breakfast in the van on thick slices of the whole-grain bread they brought along (getting staler and staler as they progressed east but made palatable with peanut butter and honey and gulps of herb tea); then collect the cats and get on the highway, drive until late afternoon (lunching en route on fruit and nuts); find a gas station and a campsite and, their resolves to stay pure and healthy broken down under the stresses of boredom and cold weather, tracking down a McDonaldâs or a Pizza Hut for dinner. And then Susannah would, maybe, write for a while, or peacefully daydream, while Ivan went out to talk to people or listened to the radio. And then baby-making, and then sleep, with the cats curled around and between them.
Susannah had plenty of time to think and daydream. Those twelve days on the road were themselves like a long dream, a strange dislocated period of time
On the long trip East, Susannah and Ivan made love once, twice, three times every night, bombarding her womb with possibilities. Ivan was full of ideas about how to manage it a third, a fourth time, how to assist the little fellowsâas he called, affectionately, his spermâon their epic journey. He jammed pillows under her pelvis, massaged her belly, proposed standing her on her head, made her assume fanciful positions that sent them both into giggling fits. Susannah became sore and tired ( tired ? Ivan seized on it, hopefully, as a pregnancy symptom), but their forced lovemaking could still ignite her sometimes. Unbelievably, there theyâd be, going through the familiar motions at two in the morning, at a campsite in, say, Ozona, Texas, for the second or third time, and it would suddenly be good, better than ever. She and Ivan would gasp with joy and kiss hungrily and fiercely, and then move slowly, very slowly and carefully, making it last, before the little fellows exploded inside her, and she and Ivan rocked together, ground their bodies together in uncomplicated ecstasy on the narrow bed, while the cats waited politely, whisker-washing on the floor until they were done.
âThere,â Ivan would say, stretching out beside her. âThat must have done it. Donât move, donât move, let the little fellows swim, quietly, quietly, come on, guys.â¦â It gave their lovemaking, Ivan said, a whole new dimension, a sane, determined, purposeful quality. âGrown-up lovemaking,â he called it, and when she accused him of being an unregenerate Catholic he protested, and explained to her with great seriousness that his ex-religion had nothing to do with anything, that in fact there could be no greater blasphemy than an ex-priest making babiesâ donât move, Susannah, lie still âthat it was the life force he was talking about, primitive nature in the raw struggling to perpetuate the species. Thatâs what he likedânot to mention the immediate, tangible result of grown-up lovemaking, i.e. the possibility of little Virginia or little Louisiana, of diapers and rubber duckies and solace in their old age.
They progressed steadily in straight lines, screwing their way across the country, aiming to see a bit of it. But they never stopped, except to eat and sleep and buy gas, letting everything go by: strange and wonderful vistas, mountains, and flat, flat stretches of dirt, promises of interesting sights advertised along the roads, state capitols and art museums and parks and hiking trails. They preferred to make haste slowly, so that each day was like the one before it: rise, let the cats out, breakfast in the van on thick slices of the whole-grain bread they brought along (getting staler and staler as they progressed east but made palatable with peanut butter and honey and gulps of herb tea); then collect the cats and get on the highway, drive until late afternoon (lunching en route on fruit and nuts); find a gas station and a campsite and, their resolves to stay pure and healthy broken down under the stresses of boredom and cold weather, tracking down a McDonaldâs or a Pizza Hut for dinner. And then Susannah would, maybe, write for a while, or peacefully daydream, while Ivan went out to talk to people or listened to the radio. And then baby-making, and then sleep, with the cats curled around and between them.
Susannah had plenty of time to think and daydream. Those twelve days on the road were themselves like a long dream, a strange dislocated period of time
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