Andreas: “I’m not surprised by Paul’s reception, but why were you so well treated?”
“You know, or maybe you don’t, that I was a boarder at Newell Academy, just like Paul. My record there, and the school’s recommendations, were every bit as good as his.”
“I didn’t know that. Thanks for the pocket history of New Bentwick. We love the place, too. We’re even thinking of moving here.”
“That’s brilliant!”
The idea may have been brilliant, but this was the first I’d heard of it. What about my professional career?
Yet, after all, the people of New Bentwick might make fine grist for a behaviorist’s mill. I began to feel what it truly was that I held.
9
The following Sunday it was Geoffrey’s and Margot’s turn to dine chez nous. Margot had already let me know that she would tell her story that evening, having first asked permission of Andreas, the other unblooded member of our group. I was surprised when she phoned me Saturday morning and asked if she could see me either that afternoon or the next: she had another story to tell me, one “for your ears only” that she urgently needed to confide to someone she trusted. I told her that we would be quite alone this afternoon — Andreas had a date to go fishing. Margot said she would walk over to our place around three-thirty.
There was only one possible path she could follow, so a little after three I set out in her direction. We met on the bridge over the little brook, we smiled and exchanged hugs, and began strolling arm in arm toward our house. Until now we’d signaled our sympathy for one another in ways limited by the circumstances of our weekly gatherings; this was the first time we were together just the two of us, and I’m certain Margot was as pleased by this as I was. We didn’t talk much, perhaps no more than to name an end-of-season bird or flower; after which we’d walk on again in silence. This established between us a mode of judicious connivance; once we were settled on our west terrace over a pot of tea, Margot had no trouble in broaching her confidential subject.
“I feel I have to start by saying this: I’m a respectable person. The people who raised me — my father was a federal judge, my mother an exemplary nurse practitioner who tended her patients at all hours of the day and night — my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, all likewise thoroughly respectable. And there wasn’t a prude among them, and I’m no prude. What is it we all respect? Something like our vocations, or the ideas we have of ourselves. Respectful may be a better word for us. I worked diligently as a defender of women’s rights, and you can’t be a prude in that field and expect results — you wrangle daily about rape, abortion, intrauterine coils, bodily fluids, all the crass details of sexual life. As regards infidelity, I didn’t have much of an opinion, it seemed more like a misdemeanor than a felony in the catalogue of sexual crime — I know it does a lot of damage, but I never saw why it had to. Myself, I’d never been tempted by it.
“You and Andreas know John of the notorious twins, don’t you? So you’ve probably seen what fun he can be?”
“That’s true — I’ve only been with him twice, but I thought he had a lot of charm, and sensitive, too —”
“Exactly! I’d only seen him twice myself, first at a semi-official drinks party Geoff took me to, I don’t know why John was there — he walked all the way around a crowded room to introduce himself, which was flattering but also strange. The next time I sat next to him at a dinner at The Hunting Horn given by a bunch of town aldermen. He talked to me the whole evening through. It wasn’t long before he began punctuating his pleasant conversation with remarks that became more and more affectionate. He didn’t go so far as to declare his intentions, but when he told me how beautiful my eyes were, I recognized the seducer’s most beguiling ploy. Still, he spoke the words ever so modestly, with his usual sweet smile, without a single blush or a drop of sweat on his smooth forehead. When we danced (slows only), he didn’t dare place his cheek against mine but settled for the braided hair above it. As we said good night, he asked me if I’d have lunch with him in two days’ time, meaning yesterday. I told him I’d have to check my dance card.
“He phoned yesterday morning. I’d told Geoff about the invitation; would he mind if I accepted? ‘Why should I mind? John can’t be after your favors. You must be near twenty years older than he is.’”
I interrupted: “Geoff doesn’t know about the allure younger men find in older women? Why, operas have been written about it. When I met John, his inclination was all too plain. If much less explicit than in your case.”
“I said nothing about that to Geoff. I agreed to the lunch.
“I’d come down on foot to meet him. He insisted on walking me home, and I let him. He followed me into the house, and once inside, he frankly defined his passion. He defined it with great delicacy and simplicity, and as he spoke he began stroking my bare upper arms — it was his touch more than his words that won me over, it was like a woman’s touch, a caress without weight or pressure, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. When he stroked my nipples through the silk of my dress, he touched them as if in passing, as if they were unfolding rosebuds he might come back to pluck. In bed
