Chapter 6
When Rachel woke up in Harry’s bed, it took her a full minute to remember where she was and why she felt so ill. It was a long and frightening minute, measured by a parade of sensations that compounded her bewilderment, one by one. The clenching of her stomach, the sour film on her tongue, the pasty lethargy of her eyelids, the sticky ache where her thighs met, the sting of her abraded cheeks.
“Thank God,” Rachel whispered when she realized she was alone. She lay in the bed for a while, listening, but finally climbed unsteadily to her feet, hoping that Harry would not return before she’d had a chance to dress and compose herself. When she could not find her sweater, she gingerly searched through the clothes that were draped over chair backs and radiators, lampshades and bedposts, across the neglected room. The green chamois shirt she chose was fairly clean, worn just enough to smell vaguely of Harry.
Once in the bathroom, Rachel locked the door and began to clean herself carefully and thoroughly. She ran Harry’s toothbrush under very hot water, both before and after scrubbing every part of her mouth, including, especially, her lips.
It didn’t surprise her when the cloth she used to wash herself came away red, for she ached and throbbed as if a piece of glass were trying to work its way out of an old abscess. She looked around the bathroom, found a small mirror in the medicine cabinet, and by perching gently on the edge of the tub was able to look down at the reflection of her genitals.
Where her flesh had before been smooth and pink, it was now jagged and empurpled and the point of each tear bore a hard, black knob. Everything seemed to have congealed or clotted in a businesslike way, however, so Rachel simply dressed herself again, brushed out her hair, and smoothed her cheeks with white, shaking hands.
She had no idea what she would say to Harry when she encountered him. Part of her was appalled and suspicious, so sure she’d made a mistake that humiliation had already begun to set in. Another part of her set aside the indistinct memory of Harry, grunting and grinning as he detected and quickly dismantled her virginity and then later, when they had rocked to an abrupt halt, turning his back. It was so tempting to think of Harry instead as he had been before last night and as he might be from here on in—a promising boy for whom she longed.
As she left the bathroom, Rachel smelled coffee and heard the sound of the television turned low. She was so nervous that she found it difficult to smile. But only Paul was there to see her enter the room, pale and hesitant. He sat up, shoved a ratty blanket off the couch so she could sit down.
“Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your strength.” He poured her a cup of coffee, built a nest of cushions around her, and opened a window so that the cold October air flowed through the stale indoors like surf.
He told Rachel that Harry had gone out and wouldn’t be back until much later in the day. She felt herself slip, then, into a posture of resignation and recognized the beginnings of remorse. But a part of her was unconvinced, well stocked with explanations and pardons. A part of her wanted very badly to believe that her infatuation with Harry would not leave her scarred.
She changed into her sweater and then sat with Paul for a while, sipping coffee and nibbling plain toast, until they felt equal to the long walk back to campus. They went slowly, stopping often, for they were both in several types of pain and had no reason to hurry. It made them feel better to walk and to be together. They talked, laughed from time to time, and singly wondered why it was taking them so long to get down to the business of sharing their secrets. As they crossed the campus green, Rachel finally led Paul to an empty bench in the sun and told him what had happened.
“No kidding, Rachel? Really? Golly. And I thought you two were playing cribbage all night. Well, I’ll be damned. Just when you think you know somebody, something like this—”
“Shut up, you ass, and let me finish.” Rachel picked up a red maple leaf from the grass and slowly dissected it. “You think you know me so well, but you didn’t know I was a virgin, did you?” She had expected surprise, even shock, but she was instantly dismayed to see the effect that this had on Paul. He sat back as if he’d been sucker-punched, put a hand to his mouth like a woman. But he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at her.
“I know you told me not to come crying to you if things went wrong with Harry,” she sighed. “And I won’t. But I want you to tell me honestly whether I would be foolish to expect him to … I don’t know … phone me later. Or come looking for me.”
Paul took his hand away from his mouth. “I told you that I’d introduce you to Harry but nothing more. No matchmaking and no handholding. If I tell you that you were a one-night stand, you’ll deny it. You’ll even be angry with me for saying so. And if I tell you that Harry will call, I’ll hate myself for postponing the inevitable. Because Harry won’t call, Rachel.” He got angrily to his
