without you… They said he died in his sleep. I don’t accept that. That stroke must have plowed through his brain like a sledge hammer… But it was a gentle tap compared to the blow I struck…”
She let him ramble on, talking not as a man but as a stricken child with all defenses down.
His confessional eased him, and he was drifting into sleep when the memory of his father’s face floated into his mind. He saw it contorted with pain, and his body stiffened as he moaned, “I should have died.”
She took his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, crooning to him, “Dear boy, dear boy…” The tension in her voice fought against the resurgent wave of guilt that was threatening his mind, and she cuddled his head as if to shelter it from the internal storm.
He felt it when she ceased to stroke his hair, but his eyes were closed and he did not see the deft movement of her free hand as she unbuttoned her tunic. He sensed her bending lower, coming closer, and felt the gentle wedging apart of his lips as she crooned, “Here, my infant, my nursling, feed on life!”
So it was that he came to know her in primitive simplicity and beauty, and the knowledge of her was like nothing he had ever known or ever imagined that he could know.
Next day he resumed his classes.
Grief stayed with him for a long while, but the remorse had been replaced by regret. It was as if the actions of Helix explained and justified the death of his father.
There were four months left to them before the Malcolms returned, and he and Helix accepted the time remaining as they had taken that dark-bright Tuesday. For him there was no satiety, and they revived and relived the old endearments of romance. They were sweethearts, and they used the term.
Even when all passion was cleanly spent, he still delighted in talking to her, touching her, and watching the secret lights of her being flash into view.
There could be an acid to her flavor.
Once, as he complimented her on purely technical matters, she said, “Someone has to take the initiative, my darling. If I hadn’t taken advantage of your grief and seduced you, we’d still be sitting on the sofa holding hands.”
He questioned her dislike of John Milton. “I don’t care for the tone of moral indignation that he uses. Now and then, a sin justifies itself, and there’s always an argument for the devil. That man was a statist before there was a state. He’s no more than an apologist for the sociologists.”
Time seemed to rush toward their last Saturday together.
On the first Saturday in April, with three more to go, he arrived at the apartment to find her there before him. Usually, he arrived first to dust, check for microphones, and bring the flowers which had become so important to the spirit they had recreated.
Outside it was misting rain from intermittent squalls, and she stood moodily by the window and let him arrange the flowers alone.
He could understand the moodiness. He shared it. They had taken down a calendar visible from the living room on the kitchen wall, and agreed not to mention time.
Finished with the flowers, he walked up behind her, put his arms around her, and said, “Now I know what that silly little ditty meant by ‘the rack of time’s compressing.’ ”
There were tears in her eyes. She put her arm around him and almost wearily walked with him back to the sofa.
“Granted, dear, that we have only three more days left, we can’t spend it sitting like two old people, huddling together against the storms of mortality.”
Instead of turning to him with her old ardor, she merely took his hand in hers and continued to gaze at the window.
Suddenly she spoke, and there was infinite sadness in her voice: “ ‘Now that you’re tortured on the rack of time’s compressing, I’ll murder you, beloved, as my final blessing.’ Haldane, I’m pregnant.”
“My god!” The arm he was placing around her went suddenly limp and fell to his side.
He felt the
She let him ramble on, talking not as a man but as a stricken child with all defenses down.
His confessional eased him, and he was drifting into sleep when the memory of his father’s face floated into his mind. He saw it contorted with pain, and his body stiffened as he moaned, “I should have died.”
She took his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, crooning to him, “Dear boy, dear boy…” The tension in her voice fought against the resurgent wave of guilt that was threatening his mind, and she cuddled his head as if to shelter it from the internal storm.
He felt it when she ceased to stroke his hair, but his eyes were closed and he did not see the deft movement of her free hand as she unbuttoned her tunic. He sensed her bending lower, coming closer, and felt the gentle wedging apart of his lips as she crooned, “Here, my infant, my nursling, feed on life!”
So it was that he came to know her in primitive simplicity and beauty, and the knowledge of her was like nothing he had ever known or ever imagined that he could know.
Next day he resumed his classes.
Grief stayed with him for a long while, but the remorse had been replaced by regret. It was as if the actions of Helix explained and justified the death of his father.
There were four months left to them before the Malcolms returned, and he and Helix accepted the time remaining as they had taken that dark-bright Tuesday. For him there was no satiety, and they revived and relived the old endearments of romance. They were sweethearts, and they used the term.
Even when all passion was cleanly spent, he still delighted in talking to her, touching her, and watching the secret lights of her being flash into view.
There could be an acid to her flavor.
Once, as he complimented her on purely technical matters, she said, “Someone has to take the initiative, my darling. If I hadn’t taken advantage of your grief and seduced you, we’d still be sitting on the sofa holding hands.”
He questioned her dislike of John Milton. “I don’t care for the tone of moral indignation that he uses. Now and then, a sin justifies itself, and there’s always an argument for the devil. That man was a statist before there was a state. He’s no more than an apologist for the sociologists.”
Time seemed to rush toward their last Saturday together.
On the first Saturday in April, with three more to go, he arrived at the apartment to find her there before him. Usually, he arrived first to dust, check for microphones, and bring the flowers which had become so important to the spirit they had recreated.
Outside it was misting rain from intermittent squalls, and she stood moodily by the window and let him arrange the flowers alone.
He could understand the moodiness. He shared it. They had taken down a calendar visible from the living room on the kitchen wall, and agreed not to mention time.
Finished with the flowers, he walked up behind her, put his arms around her, and said, “Now I know what that silly little ditty meant by ‘the rack of time’s compressing.’ ”
There were tears in her eyes. She put her arm around him and almost wearily walked with him back to the sofa.
“Granted, dear, that we have only three more days left, we can’t spend it sitting like two old people, huddling together against the storms of mortality.”
Instead of turning to him with her old ardor, she merely took his hand in hers and continued to gaze at the window.
Suddenly she spoke, and there was infinite sadness in her voice: “ ‘Now that you’re tortured on the rack of time’s compressing, I’ll murder you, beloved, as my final blessing.’ Haldane, I’m pregnant.”
“My god!” The arm he was placing around her went suddenly limp and fell to his side.
He felt the
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