Flying insects, silver-bodied in the sun’s brilliance, swarmed over emerging mums, and bees were at the roses. The humid air was rhythmic with the activity. She lifted herself up. “I’m going in.”
He rose too and approached her. He looked at her with tired eyes and spoke too close to her face. His breath had turned. “How would you like a child?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said.
• • •
Windows were open, and the heat of the day, laced with pollen, lay dense in her bedroom. Emerging from the chaos of a sneeze, she plucked a Kleenex from the night table and blew hard. Wiping her nose, she said, “Put on the air conditioner.”
“No,” he said. “Then we can’t hear anything.”
They were sitting cross-legged and barefoot on her bed, library books between them. She reached behind her head and fantailed her heavy black hair. Her shirt was open, the cups of her inadequate bra overfilled. “I was going to knock on their door last night,” she said, “but they were getting it off.”
“Why shouldn’t they? They’re married.”
“I know, but doesn’t it make you feel kind of itchy? My mom. Your dad.”
“You’re too much, Hannaford.” In private he called her by her surname because it isolated their differences. What he liked best about her was the high promise she carried of her mother’s likeness.
“I wish we had a joint,” she said.
“Your mother would smell it in a minute.”
“Forget her. You worry too much.”
His own mother had died when he was nine. When he was eight, he had seen her in her bath and had waited for God to strike him dead. He had glimpsed the tense line of a breast and had anticipated a thunderbolt.
“What time is she coming home?” he asked.
“How do I know?”
“Where’d she say she was going?”
There was a laugh. “Are you afraid of her, Tony?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Do you have a thing for her?”
“Cool it, Hannaford.”
He asserted himself by leaning over the books, breathing her air, expanding his chest. She lifted his T-shirt and counted ribs, then pinked his stomach with a sharp finger. He squeezed her feet. Her painted toes glittered like candy. She kicked free, her legs leaping from a denim skirt.
“What do you think of my new panties?”
“Jesus, Hannaford!”
She wasn’t wearing any. Her private hair was a narrow wedge pointed down at a bare cleft, the price paid to accommodate the brevity of swimwear, the currency hot wax. Her brown eyes gained luster as she snapped forward to sweep the books off the bed. “Do you want me to do you?”
He was nervous, apprehensive, his ears wide open for threatening sounds. “Not now. It’s too hot.”
“Then do me,” she said, dropping back.
It was as if she were offering him a cup from which to staunch a thirst. Jaws thrust forward, he felt the growing weight of his head on the back of his neck, with an opposing force coming from the sudden clamp of her hand. He exulted in the thrilling odor of her but twice thought he heard a car and another time footsteps behind him. Still, he brought her off, or perhaps she brought herself off. He was never sure.
“I’d better get out of here,” he said with a fast look at his watch. He leapt away, struggled with his sneakers, then the laces, and grabbed books that were his. She smiled languidly from the bed and scratched an ankle with the toe of the other foot, as if he were no longer essential to a mood or relevant to her life.
“You did your duty,” she said in a teasing tone.
He slipped out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Carpeting in the wide corridor, which soaked up his footsteps, also muted the
plocks
of Regina Smith’s high heels. His breath caught when he saw her round the top of the staircase. Approaching him, she cast fiercely maternal eyes toward her daughter’s room.
“What were you doing in there?”
A book slipped from his grasp. His T-shirt was sweat-soaked. “Talking.”
Her face contorted. “It
He rose too and approached her. He looked at her with tired eyes and spoke too close to her face. His breath had turned. “How would you like a child?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said.
• • •
Windows were open, and the heat of the day, laced with pollen, lay dense in her bedroom. Emerging from the chaos of a sneeze, she plucked a Kleenex from the night table and blew hard. Wiping her nose, she said, “Put on the air conditioner.”
“No,” he said. “Then we can’t hear anything.”
They were sitting cross-legged and barefoot on her bed, library books between them. She reached behind her head and fantailed her heavy black hair. Her shirt was open, the cups of her inadequate bra overfilled. “I was going to knock on their door last night,” she said, “but they were getting it off.”
“Why shouldn’t they? They’re married.”
“I know, but doesn’t it make you feel kind of itchy? My mom. Your dad.”
“You’re too much, Hannaford.” In private he called her by her surname because it isolated their differences. What he liked best about her was the high promise she carried of her mother’s likeness.
“I wish we had a joint,” she said.
“Your mother would smell it in a minute.”
“Forget her. You worry too much.”
His own mother had died when he was nine. When he was eight, he had seen her in her bath and had waited for God to strike him dead. He had glimpsed the tense line of a breast and had anticipated a thunderbolt.
“What time is she coming home?” he asked.
“How do I know?”
“Where’d she say she was going?”
There was a laugh. “Are you afraid of her, Tony?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Do you have a thing for her?”
“Cool it, Hannaford.”
He asserted himself by leaning over the books, breathing her air, expanding his chest. She lifted his T-shirt and counted ribs, then pinked his stomach with a sharp finger. He squeezed her feet. Her painted toes glittered like candy. She kicked free, her legs leaping from a denim skirt.
“What do you think of my new panties?”
“Jesus, Hannaford!”
She wasn’t wearing any. Her private hair was a narrow wedge pointed down at a bare cleft, the price paid to accommodate the brevity of swimwear, the currency hot wax. Her brown eyes gained luster as she snapped forward to sweep the books off the bed. “Do you want me to do you?”
He was nervous, apprehensive, his ears wide open for threatening sounds. “Not now. It’s too hot.”
“Then do me,” she said, dropping back.
It was as if she were offering him a cup from which to staunch a thirst. Jaws thrust forward, he felt the growing weight of his head on the back of his neck, with an opposing force coming from the sudden clamp of her hand. He exulted in the thrilling odor of her but twice thought he heard a car and another time footsteps behind him. Still, he brought her off, or perhaps she brought herself off. He was never sure.
“I’d better get out of here,” he said with a fast look at his watch. He leapt away, struggled with his sneakers, then the laces, and grabbed books that were his. She smiled languidly from the bed and scratched an ankle with the toe of the other foot, as if he were no longer essential to a mood or relevant to her life.
“You did your duty,” she said in a teasing tone.
He slipped out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Carpeting in the wide corridor, which soaked up his footsteps, also muted the
plocks
of Regina Smith’s high heels. His breath caught when he saw her round the top of the staircase. Approaching him, she cast fiercely maternal eyes toward her daughter’s room.
“What were you doing in there?”
A book slipped from his grasp. His T-shirt was sweat-soaked. “Talking.”
Her face contorted. “It
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