Later, bringing an armload of returned books upstairs to help fill in the hour left of work, she passed between the ranks of children's classics and inspirational works that lined an aisle near the doorway: Little Women, retold for younger readers; King Arthur and His Merry Men, with Victorian illustrations; Great Teens in History, a girlish
Joan of Arc on the front. Dog-eared and skinny, with brightly colored covers and ragged spines, the volumes seemed repositories of a kind of innocence that, after tonight, she'd be unable to share. She paused beside the reference desk to study the photos on a Girl Scout poster, relic of some long-ago recruiting drive, and found herself face to face with a racial mix of laughing little girls. They, too, seemed inhabitants of another, more innocent world, a world already receding into the past. She wondered if they'd laugh for her tomorrow.
Enough! she told herself. She must keep things in perspective. What, after all, were a tiny patch of skin and a few drops of blood to St Agnes's beheading, Catherine on the spiked wheel, Ursula ravished by the Huns, Marcus stung to death by wasps? Why pretend the thing she'd do tonight had any mystical significance?
Moving toward the front of the room, the day's heat at last beginning to lift, she deposited her books on a return table by the windowsill. Downstairs this area was where the ten-cents-a-day bestsellers lay piled; up here the books were sooty, and faded by the now-departing sun, but a scattering of gold Newbery medallions gleamed among their covers like symbols of purity.
Purity! Once more it rose in her, that absurd feeling of regret. This was a world she'd be leaving tonight. She felt like one condemned to death, gazing upon all she encountered as if for the last time.
Around her children were reading aloud to themselves, mouths laboriously shaping the words, while others puzzled in silence through the more difficult books or roamed up and down the aisles in a temperature-induced torpor, pulling out volumes at random and putting a few of them back. Most of the children, absorbed in their reading or daydreams, took little notice of her or Mrs Schumann; those who were bored made it obvious, unlike their elders downstairs, leafing impatiently through picture books or disputing with their friends. Still, the second floor was quiet at this hour, the atmosphere unusually subdued, and there were few real fights to settle; the room echoed with a soft gabble of voices punctuated only by laughter and the occasional high-pitched complaint. Carol found it a curiously restful sound.
Just before closing time, she was about to replace a handful of books on a shelf at the back of the room when, turning down the farthest row, she came upon a pale, skinny little girl, underpants below her knees, in the act of lifting her dress above her waist. Two small boys who'd been crouching in front of her jumped to their feet and dashed noisily up the aisle, disappearing around the other end. Carol heard the patter of their footsteps as they raced across the room. One of them made straight for the doorway and vanished down the stairs; the other paused only to snatch up a baseball cap and glove before hurrying after him.
The girl, however, was frozen guiltily to the spot, her eyes wide. She'd had time to yank the underpants up over the crumpled pink of her dress but was still clutching the waistband with both hands. Abruptly she let the elastic snap free, attempted to smooth back the dress, and cried, 'Didn't do nothing!'
Nor had she, of course. There was certainly nothing to punish her for, and though Carol couldn't resist giving her a brief, whispered reminder on How Some People Take Advantage of Other People's Innocence, she said nothing at all when, a few minutes later, the girl's irascible-looking mother came to claim her.
In fact, though she was slow to admit it to herself, Carol was amused – and in some dim, disreputable way, even somewhat aroused. She couldn't get the sight out of her mind: the child's brazenly hoisted dress, the sunlight on her legs, and the two boys hunched like worshipers before that frail, hairless little tuck of skin no bigger than a fortune cookie. There was a kind of power in it. It reawakened memories of her own, playing doctor with the neighbors' boy, and body magic in the loft above the garage, and -was it a painting she'd once seen? That group of men who stared in fearful wonder at the bound and naked body on an altar: had she seen it in a picture book? Maybe it had only been a dream.
Only a dream. But in the shower that evening, as she prepared herself for Jeremy's arrival, the vision remained, and she stood with head thrown back, the hot spray beating sharp against her skin, obscurely stirred as she felt the water on her, and the eyes.
Jeremy arrived more than half an hour early, muttering about the heat and noise outside and the trash in the hallway downstairs. The restaurant hadn't found his book bag, nor had it been returned to his apartment, and the couple who were subletting the place had treated him, he said, 'like a stranger in my own home.' He'd met a friend for drinks, but the conversation had quickly turned boring. He looked at Carol expectantly, as if waiting for her to set things right.
She was fresh from the shower and still in her robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel. She'd been rather put out that he'd come so much sooner than planned, and after buzzing him in downstairs she had struggled into a bra and panties and had raced through the apartment gathering up loose clothes and flinging them toward a closet, wiping the crumbs from the kitchen table and her hair from the tub, and squinting at her features in the steamy bathroom mirror. She'd thought she looked disconcertingly pale, though it was hard to tell in the bad light; just to be safe she'd pinched her cheeks the way Scarlett O'Hara used to do before meeting a beau.
But Scarlett O'Hara had never found herself parading around in a terrycloth bathrobe and turban, and no beau of hers had ever shown up with sweat stains on his shirt and liquor on his breath. The whole evening seemed to be getting off to a miserable start – at least that's what she'd thought – until, settling himself on the living room couch, Jeremy eyed her up and down and said, 'You know, you look damned nice right now.'
She waited for the derisive little smile which was often the only way he signaled he was joking; but his mouth, and his eyes, remained serious.
Nervously she tightened the sash. 'I suppose I'd better get dressed.'
'Hey, don't go doing that for my sake!'
She laughed. 'I thought you wanted to go out for dinner.'
'Of course I do, but what's the rush? Come on, sit down here a minute.' He slapped the cushion beside him, then pulled away his hand, as if surprised at his own audacity.
Surprised at hers, she sat.
They were silent for a time, as if each were pondering the implications of this new development. Carol heard her breathing coincide with his. Seated so close to him, she was exquisitely aware of how little she had on beneath the robe. Her skin still tingled from the shower; he would find it clean if, by some chance, he were to reach out and touch her right now.
At last, with something like a sigh, he reached out and scratched his knee. 'Jesus,' he said, 'remind me never to drink on an empty stomach.'
'Do you want me to make some coffee?' She was already getting to her feet.
'No, no, sit down, it would just make things worse. One cup and I feel like I'm in the Boston Marathon.' He patted his heart. 'And after the second I'm awake all night. Even without it, these days, I seem to be staying up later and later. My whole schedule's screwed up.'
Carol nodded. 'Mine too. I guess I'm still not used to having this place alone.'
She watched the final minutes of sunshine inching steadily up the wall and was struck by how shabby the apartment looked even in the waning light. The living room still smelled faintly of Rochelle, especially by the couch where they were seated. Rochelle had slept on it whenever she was home; unfolded, it became a bed considerably wider than her own. Carol thought of all the men this couch had seen; she had already decided that this was where the two of them would sleep tonight.
'My roommate was one of the noisiest people I've ever met,' she said. She wondered briefly why she'd used the past tense. 'Sometimes, just as I was turning off my light, I'd hear her snoring. And when one of her boyfriends was over… ' She made a face. 'I could hear them even with my door closed. I guess that's why the silence feels so strange. Lately I just can't seem to get to bed before two or three in the morning.'
'Oh, really? You sure went to bed early enough that night at the farm.'
His voice was edged with resentment. God, she thought, how ridiculously selfish he can be! But at least he still seemed interested.
'I was tired from all that driving,' she said. 'And I didn't get much sleep there anyway.'
'Yeah, I remember. Nightmares, you said. Hell, I'd get nightmares too, with all those Bible pictures hanging over my head! Next time, why not stay out back with me?' He gave her a sly look.
'Who knows?' she said. 'Maybe I will.' She saw that she'd surprised him and felt an urge to laugh. 'That is,' she added, 'if you promise I won't have any more bad dreams.'
He shook his head. 'I only wish I could. But I promise I'll be there when you wake up.'
