spectacular. For Zemui. For me. They promised me that you and our family would not be harmed. As soon as the hijack was over, I realized how stupid it was. Nothing about it was great. I was a great fool, that's all.”
She drank her tea. She stood up. “Forgive me, if you can. You deserved better.”
“Shut up and sit down,” I said. She obeyed. “You think that does it? You say sorry and then leave?”
She shook her head.
“You had a baby?” I said. “A field baby.”
“The contraceptives they gave us didn't work.”
“Why did you go to jail?”
“Must I tell you everything?”
She began coughing again. When the spasm was over, she shivered, although the room was warm and I was sweating.
“What happened to your baby?”
Her face crumpled. Her lips stretched out. Her shoulders shook. “They took my baby away from me. Gave him away for adoption. I curse the man who put me in that position. Curse that man.” She looked up. “I was a good mother, Marion—”
“A good mother!” I laughed. “If you were a good mother you might be carrying
She smiled through her tears as if I were being funny—as if shed just remembered my fantasy of our getting married and populating Missing with our children. Then she began to shake, and at first I thought she was crying or laughing, but I heard her teeth chatter. I had rehearsed my lines in my head as I walked out of Asmara, walked all the way to the Sudan; Id rehearsed them so many times since. I imagined every excuse she might offer if I ever met her. I had my barbs ready. But this quaking, silent adversary was not what Id envisioned. I reached over and felt her pulse. One hundred forty beats per minute. Her skin, cool just a while ago, was burning to the touch.
“I … must … go,” she said, rising but swaying.
“No, you will stay.”
She was clearly unwell. I gave her three aspirin. I led her into the master bath and ran the shower. When it was steaming, I helped her undress. If earlier I had seen her as an animal in the predator's lair, now I felt like a father disrobing his child. Once she was in the shower, I tossed her underwear and shirt into the washer and ran the load. I helped her out of the shower. She was on glass legs. I dried her off and sat her on the edge of the bed. I put a pair of my winter flannels on her and tucked her in. I made her eat a few spoons of casserole and drink more tea. I put Vicks on her throat and on her chest and the soles of her feet, just as Hema would do with us. She was asleep before I slid the woolen socks over her toes.
What was I feeling? This was a Pyrrhic victory. A
“Do you want me to leave now?” she said.
In that question, I felt that she was taking control because there was only one possible answer: “You're sleeping here.”
“I'm burning up,” she said.
I changed into my boxers and T-shirt in the bathroom, took a blanket from the wardrobe, and headed for the library.
“Stay with me?” she said. “Please?”
I had no reply planned for that.
I climbed into my bed. When I reached for the light, she said, “Please leave it on.”
No sooner had I lain down than she pressed against me, smelling of my deodorant, my shampoo, and Vicks. She raised my arm and huddled in the crook of my shoulder, her damp body against me. Her fingers touched my face, very gingerly, as if she worried that I might bite. I remembered that night so many years ago when I had found her naked in the pantry.
“What's that sound?” she said, startled.
“It's the dryer alarm. I washed your clothes.”
I heard her sniffle. Then sob. “You deserved better,” she said, looking up.
“Yes, I did.”
I stared at her eyes, remembering the little fleck in the right iris, and the puff of gray around it, where a spark had penetrated. Yes, it was still there, darker now, looking like a blemish she was born with. I traced her lips. Her nose. She shut her lids at my touch. Tears were sliding underneath them. She smiled a smile from our days of innocence. I took my hand away. She opened her lids, her eyes glistening. Hesitantly she kissed my lips.
No, I hadn't forgotten. At that moment, my anger wasn't so much with her as it was with the passage of time. Time had robbed me of such wonderful illusions, taken them away far too soon. But right then I wanted the illusion that she was mine.
She kissed me again, and I tasted the salt of her tears. Was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't take that, ever. Suddenly I was on top of her, tearing away the sheet, tearing away her towel, clumsy but determined. She was startled, the muscles of her neck taut like cables. I grabbed her head and kissed her.
“Wait,” she whispered, “shouldn't you … ?”
But I was already inside her.
She winced.
“Shouldn't I what, Genet?” I said as I bucked, my pelvis possessing some intrinsic knowledge of the movements needed. “This is my first time …,” I managed to say. “I wouldn't know what I should or shouldn't do.”
Her pupils dilated. Was she pleased to learn this about me?
Now she knew.
Now she knew that there were people in this world who kept their promises. Ghosh, whose deathbed she never had the time to visit, was one such person. I wanted the knowledge to shame her, to terrify her. When it was over, I stayed on top of her.
“My first time, Genet …,” I said, softly. “Don't think that's because I was waiting for you. It's because you fucked my life up. You could have counted on me. Money in the bank, as they say here. And what did you do? You turned it all into shit. I wanted to make life beautiful for you. I don't understand it really, Genet. You had Hema and Ghosh. You had Missing. You had me who loved you more than you will ever love yourself.”
She wept under me. After a long time, she gently caressed my head, tried to kiss me. She said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
I ignored her. I was aroused again. I began to move inside her once more.
“Please, Marion,” she said.
Without removing myself from within her, I rolled onto my back, holding her, flipping her, and setting her on top of me, her breasts hovering over me.
“You need to pee? Go ahead,” I said, my breath coming quick. “You've done that before, too.”
I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to me hard. I smelled her fever, and the scent of blood and sex and urine. I came again.
Then I let go. I let her slide off.
I WOKE LATE ON SATURDAY MORNING to find her back in the crook of my arm, staring at me. I took her again—I couldn't imagine how I had denied myself this pleasure for so long.
When I awoke it was 2:00 p.m. and I could hear her in the kitchen. I went to the bathroom. It was when I returned to the bed that I saw the blood on the sheets. I stripped the bed and took the sheets to the washing machine.
She brought two cups of coffee, a serving of the casserole and two spoons to me. She was getting feverish again, the dressing gown not warm enough, her teeth chattering, and with spasms of a dry cough. I took the coffee from her. Her dressing gown came apart. She watched me remake the bed.
