“So do I. What have you heard?”
“From the hospital? Nothing yet.”
“Hmmm. I’ll have to bring her some flowers.”
“She’d like that,” said Susan. Then she frowned suddenly and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You look, I don’t know, hunted.”
That shook me a bit; I’m not used to people being quite so perspicacious. I said, “I’m a little short on sleep, I guess.” I forced a laugh and took my coat off. “I hope I don’t have what Jill has.”
She took it seriously. “You do look a bit pale, and sort of wan.”
“Hmmm.”
We sat on the couch together. She said, “What happened to your other coat?”
“It’s being cleaned. Isn’t that thing hideous?”
“In a word: yes. But on the other hand, there isn’t much winter left.”
“True.”
“Would you like some wine?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t drink much, do you?”
“I drink deeply of your eyes, my love.”
She laughed and took my hand that was about her shoulders, caressed it, pressed it against her face. Her face was very warm. We sat like that for several minutes.
I said, “To whom are we listening?”
“Kate Bush.”
“She sounds Irish.”
“She is.”
She fell silent-Susan, that is, not Kate Bush. The latter continued to sing. She’s good, if you like that sort of thing. I thought I might, in another fifty years or so.
I could feel that Susan was deep in thought; I remained silent, enjoying her touch, knowing that eventually she would tell me what was on her mind. After two or three minutes she said, “Jonathan.”
“Yes?”
“If I stop seeing Jennifer, will you stop seeing Jill?” I looked at her, my mouth suddenly dry. I said, “You continue to astound me.”
“I hope that’s good,” she said.
“That’s good.”
“But what is your answer?”
I kissed her, then went on kissing her. After a while I picked her up and carried her upstairs, where I held her close for a long time before doing anything else.
I reached a place, but did she reach it with me? Can I know? It seems she did, but I am capable of lying to myself. It seemed that we were where touch was deeper than touch, where the physical paths we led each other along made all of the base mechanics of lovemaking more than irrelevant; a place few are privileged to visit, and those few only rarely; a place where, once you’ve been there, you might spend the rest of your life in a futile effort to get back to. It is for this reason that pleasure must always have at least this element of risk, if no other: That perhaps this joy will never occur again. But this serpent will invade only the loveliest, most bountiful gardens; his presence in such gardens is inevitable, and we accept it serenely, and with gratitude, for we know that we have been privileged.
So, at least, were my thoughts as I lay in bed next to my lover, who slept with a smile on her face that brought an ache to my heart and a tear to my eye.
I tried to remember what it had been like with Laura. I remembered the intensity, the need, and the feeling that she shared it, but little else. I remembered a few occasions-most of them moments while we walked, she would clasp me to her, and there would be the feeling of growing and diminishing, and then I’d walk on, my knees shaking, feeling weak, distant, confused, but vaguely triumphant. But that is all. Certainly, I could recall nothing that would make me think love could change how the act itself felt. Wouldn’t it be funny if, so long ago, she had been in love, and I’d only been fooling myself?
What a silly thing to wonder about.
I lay next to Susan and rested, and thought about nothing at all.
Some hours later she stirred. I kissed the palm of her hand and said, “Are you awake?”
“Mmmm. A little.”
“Are you awake enough to answer a question?”
She stretched and shifted. “If it’s an easy one.”
“Oh. Well, never mind.”
She opened her eyes, squinted at me, licked her lips. When she is awake, her sheet and comforter are always waist-high, which I’m certain she does on purpose, because Susan doesn’t do things like that accidentally. “What is it?” she said.
I caressed her hair and the side of her face. “Tell me something, then.”
“Hmmmm?”
“What’s it like for you?”
“What do you mean, ‘it’?”
“When we make love. What’s it like?”
She smiled a Susan smile, full of light. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”
“No.”
She tilted her head. “You look so serious.”
“I get that way sometimes. What’s it like?”
“It’s nice. It’s sort of dreamy and romantic, all warm and soft and red.”
“Red?”
“Mmmm.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not sure I do either. Is it important?”
I sighed. “I guess not. Sleep now, my love.”
“Mmmm,” she said, and did.
It has been several days since I have set anything down on paper. There has been little enough to tell; I have been resting and recovering. I have spoken to Susan over the telephone, but I’ve been afraid to see her for fear of what I might do. I sent Jill flowers, and I have been gathering strength; slowly, but quickly enough. Today I am feeling almost myself again.
I spent today reading over some of what I’ve written on this typewriting machine, and I’m struck by all the things that, for some reason or another, I have never recorded. I didn’t mention that business with the cab driver that almost got me in trouble, I said nothing about the fight in the back room of Flannery’s that led me to decide not to go back there, or how I fought with a van and won (that was amusing; I wish I could remember it better) and nothing at all about Susan’s birthday party and the scene Jill made.
All of which leads me to wonder at the subconscious processes by which I decide what I ought to set down. It’s a shame, too, because there are things that I think I won’t remember, and would appreciate having recorded. I wish I’d thought of doing this years ago; perhaps I’d remember what Paris was like, and I think I’d get a smile out of my recollections of Kiri-chan.
I also noticed, as I read, that my selection of detail seems to have changed in the few scant months since I began these pages, as if before I wished to note the passing of words between me and others, and now it is the deeds, and especially the blood, that have taken hold of my mind. Why is that? If it implies a change in me, I don’t think it is a change for the better.
Or maybe it isn’t really a change at all; maybe most of what I’ve recorded are things that, in one way or another, surprised me; there are certainly enough of these. I didn’t think Kellem would want to destroy me, I didn’t think I’d be unable to deduce what she had done that worried her so, I didn’t think a woman could have the kind of
