“You and Bob?”
“Me and the mental giant, yes. I literally hate the son of a bitch for a lot of things, but I must admit he had a tough row to hoe, to coin a phrase. For him to be married to me had to be a very deballing experience.”
“Well, Harry and I have nothing like that.”
“Oh, God, no. His ego feeds on you.”
“Uh-huh. Rho? I don’t know how to say this.”
I waited. Apprehensively.
“Do you remember, no, of course you remember, what I mean is do you often think of what we once were to each other?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Uh. You were the only girl that I even-”
“And vice versa.”
“I thought so. Ever since I got your letter I’ve wondered what it would be like, being close again.”
“And?”
“The fact that we were, that we used to be, uh, lovers, and are now friends again.”
“You wondered if it would be awkward.”
“Awkward, yes.”
“Is it?”
“No.” Eyes turning quickly to me, then back to the road again. “No, not awkward at all. But as if we’re closer today for having shared this experience what, ten years ago?”
“Ten years, yes.”
“Today is Tuesday.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow Harry goes into New York.”
“I know.” Would he invite me to come with him? And would I go? I wondered about this, and almost missed what she said next.
“We’ll be alone together, Rho. All day.”
I felt a hand curl its fingers around my heart and begin to squeeze.
And in a rush, “I still want you. I want you more than I ever wanted you. I can’t help it. I think I knew it the day your letter came. I don’t know. Every day I try to think of a way to tell you this and I never can find the right words and now I don’t care if the words are right or wrong, I can’t hold it in any more. Rhoda, I still love you. God, I love you!”
Parts of my flesh were as frozen, other parts alive and singing.
I said, “Stop the car.”
She pulled the car onto the shoulder, put the transmission in Park, and sort of sagged behind the wheel. I reached across her to cut the ignition. On the way back she caught my hand and pressed the back of it to her breasts.
I remembered kissing Harry, and kissed Priss.
We held each other for what seemed a very long time. There was no urgency to this. There wasn’t, truth to tell, a hell of a lot of sex to it. I was closer to tears than passion, and closer to wordless joy than either.
We didn’t talk again until the car was again rolling down the highway. Then I said, “There’s still time to stop.”
“No, there isn’t. Not for me. I don’t think there ever really was, my darling.”
“Are you sure you know what we’re getting into?”
“No. I’m not sure of anything. Except that this is what I want and need.”
“I don’t want to wreck anything. You and Harry have a good thing going.”
“He’ll be in New York.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He goes early in the morning and stays the whole day. He sometimes doesn’t get back until late at night.”
“I know.”
“Don’t get out of bed in the morning.”
“I won’t.”
“After he leaves I’ll come to you. Stay in bed and I’ll come to you. Will you do that? Will you wait for me?”
“Yes.”
“I was so afraid to say all this. To let you know. I sensed that you wanted me as I want you but I thought that it might be wishful thinking, that I was seeing what I wanted to see. But it’s not that at all, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. I don’t think I ever stopped wanting you, Priss. During school, after school, during my marriage, I wasn’t always aware of it, but it was always there. I never did get over you.”
“We’ll never get over each other,” she said. “Never never never.”
And that is where this chapter is going to have to stop. I have written things before, longer things than this, some of them personal and some of them not so personal, but I have never written anything that so thoroughly exhausted me. This is hard work.
I thought this chapter would carry the story further, to include the Wednesday morning scene between Priss and me. But I seem to have come closer to total recall of the two foregoing scenes than I had thought likely.
Which is perhaps just as well. Because the hardest part of this for me is to get across the way I was attracted to both of these people at once, with each attraction reinforcing the other. I wanted Harry and I wanted Priss, and I also wanted him because he was hers and her because she was his. I wanted her for my sister and him for my brother and I wanted the two of them to be my parents and my children.
I could not kiss either of them without thinking of-and yearning for-the other.
So you can do the sex part, Priss. In the morning, after Harry left, as I lay curled fetally in my little bed and waited breathlessly for you to come to me.
PRISS
Rhoda, you asked me if I knew what I was getting into.
Rhoda, we never know what we are getting into. Never. We didn’t know what we were getting into when we started writing this book. It started off as a lark. We knew what you wrote in the first chapter, that we had an unstated purpose of some deep sort, but we could not have known we would open up in quite this fashion, or that so many unknown things would come to light.
Every day or so one of us writes a chapter, and the other two read it, and no one says anything whatsoever. There seems to be an unvoiced agreement that the disclosures and conjectures and revelations of our writings can only be commented upon in subsequent writings. And this is necessary, I think, because if any of this were voiced Harry, I knew that you made something of a point of getting laid on Wednesday. On any Wednesday. I knew it partly because I am intuitive, and know you well, and partly too because one notices things, keeps unconscious track. You always seemed to avoid making love to me on Tuesday nights before a solo trip to New York, as if saving up your passion for whoever you hoped to see. And so often on Wednesday nights you would throw me a duty fuck. And I could tell, or thought I could tell, the difference between those heroic duty fucks on days when Marcia or some other lucky girl had taken you to bed, and the therapeutic fucks on days when there was no one in New York to ball and you came home genuinely horny.
I also knew, though I didn’t ever dwell on it, that you were probably fucking Marcia.
But to read about it, even now, even in view of our three-way lack of jealousy, our open attitudes, tore the shit out of me. And literally so. It turned my stomach inside out, and I kept running to the bathroom while my intestines had spasms.
It’s the intimacy that is so painful. The conversation, the two of you playing back and forth to each other. I hate Marcia for being able to fill this need of yours. And hate you for being a person, a functioning person, while
