“I picked the lock, broke a window, and came down the chimney.”
“Oh, the usual.”
“Right.”
“Vivian always said that a man who couldn’t surprise you is a waste of time.”
“Surprise, surprise,” I said.
She smiled into my eyes. “Jill isn’t here, you know.”
“I know. You are.”
“Yes,” she said, “I am,” and came into my arms. Some time later I carried her into the bedroom.
I don’t know why I bother making promises to myself when I know I can’t keep them.
I was still there some hours later when her eyelids fluttered open. She curled up next to me and said, “You’re dressed.” Her voice was a little hoarse.
I traced my initials on her side and said, “Yes.”
“Is Jill home?”
“I heard her come in about an hour ago.”
“What did she say?”
“The door was closed; I doubt she knows I’m here.”
“You didn’t talk to her?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Mmmmm.”
She stretched a little in happy contentment as I watched. I took my feelings out and examined them; surprised, not at the state she was in, but at my own pride in having brought her there. I said, “What do you think of Jill’s room?”
“Mmmmm. It’s her room. She hasn’t gotten evangelical on me, so I don’t really care. She did try to put those things all over the house, but I put my foot down. I live here, too.”
“Indeed. But isn’t that what you meant before about claiming territory?”
“Yes,” she said brightly. “But she didn’t succeed.”
“I should imagine,” I said, “that many women dislike you.”
She looked hurt, and for a moment I was afraid she was going to cry. “Hey,” I said. “I didn’t mean-”
She shook her head and smiled as if sharing a joke with herself. “Not as many as all that,” she said. Then she was serious again. “But I don’t understand why.” This was said very softly.
I realized I’d hit a sore spot, and I didn’t know what to say. “You don’t? Women are so often territorial when it comes to men, and you-”
“Oh, come now, Jonathan. I respect boundaries as much as anyone.”
“But you said-”
“It is simply a matter of establishing them in my home.”
“I think I understand.”
“I don’t make it a practice to, what is the word? Poach. I think I’ve heard it called that, as if men were some sort of game that could only be hunted in season and in certain places. What a revolting idea.”
“Well-”
“But if someone has a lover, I don’t interfere.”
“Good idea.”
“So why is that so many women feel threatened by me?”
“You’re asking me? I have no idea.” I looked around for a way to change the subject, feeling a little uncomfortable with this one. I said, “Did the sudden change surprise you?”
“What change?”
“In Jill.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose it did,” she said reflectively, “but it shouldn’t have. She hasn’t been very happy lately, and the thing with Don was the last straw, I think. She hasn’t been willing to talk about it. I ought to have predicted either this or drugs, and this is better.”
“What thing with Don?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“No.”
She shook her head and I think was going to tell me, but then she yawned and suddenly looked very sleepy, and she dozed off before she got around to it. I picked up my coat and went over to Jill’s room. I waited just outside of it. Presently, Jill came out, looking vaguely confused. She saw me, and the shock grew in her eyes. She opened her mouth and took in a breath. I clapped my hand over her mouth. “Don’t wake up Susan,” I said. “She’s sleeping.”
She did her best to wake her up anyway, but I had her in a firm grip. She stank, horribly, so that I almost gagged from being next to her, but I forced myself to endure it long enough to strip off everything she was wearing. I couldn’t help but laugh. “All of that nonsense in your room, and only the stench on your person? One might doubt your sincerity. Or your intelligence, at any rate.” This only made her struggle harder; I had to choke her almost unconscious, but at last it was done. I dragged her to the bathroom and turned on the cold water, then pulled the knob for the shower. She continued to struggle the entire time. When the smell was gone I took her from the shower, pushed her against the wall and held her until she stopped struggling.
I finally took my hand away from her mouth and told her exactly what she was going to do. She nodded her agreement, but when I released her she took a step, then collapsed to the floor and began to tremble violently, as if she were having some sort of seizure. I knew she wasn’t diabetic, but perhaps she was an epileptic; if so, I didn’t know what to do except to try to keep her from hurting herself in her thrashings; and it seemed reasonable that I ought to try to keep her warm.
I wrapped her in a towel and carried her down to the couch, where she lay twisting and jerking violently for a long time, until she gradually settled down to shivering. Her face went through the most amazing contortions, as if she were trying to disown her tongue. I put an Afghan comforter over her, and then, when she kept trembling, I added a few coats. After about an hour, she abruptly stopped, broke into a sweat, and lay perfectly still in a sleep from which I could not wake her. I checked her breathing, which seemed fine, and her pulse, which was racing at first, but gradually settled down.
Not knowing what else to do I went home and came up to my typing room, put a fresh piece of paper in the machine and began to hit the keys. It was only then that I noticed that my right hand itched the way skin does when it is repairing itself, though I had not noticed being hurt. I looked, and saw the traces of the damage still there in my palm, which is when I stopped and, as I said, laughed almost hysterically for a while. I couldn’t help it.
Apparently, while attempting to escape my muffling, Jill had bitten my hand hard enough to draw blood.
SEVEN
ac?cli?mate v.- tr. To accustom (something or someone) to a new environment or situation; adapt, acclimatize. intr. To become accustomed to a new environment.
Kellem spoke to me of dreams, and just yesterday I made reference to the dreams I used to have when I first knew her, and now I’ve had another one. Of course, I always dream, and I often remember what I dream, but I’m not speaking now about vague impressions filtered from memories, fears, and the sights and sounds that infiltrate the benumbed senses of the sleeper to invade his thoughts without waking him; I am speaking of a dream that comes with all the power of significance, and tells you what you did not know before-or would tell you if you knew how to interpret it. And then there are dreams that not only inform, but are part of the process of change-dreams that visit the world as it visits the sleeper. But we don’t really believe in those, do we?
