Chapter Six

Thursday

In the morning, I awoke once again to discover Barbara lying next to me nursing Serena. Steve lay behind Barbara, watching. They noticed that my eyes were open, and we said good morning to each other.

I felt wonderfully listless, a pleasant, lightheaded exhaustion. My body felt tender, almost sore, as it did after strenuous exercise. I stretched, and felt the muscles in my inner thighs ache.

Eventually we began our day, getting out of bed one at a time, visiting the bathroom. Steve got dressed and joined Barbara and me at the dining table, where we had already set breakfast for the three of us.

We all spoke softly, almost in whispers, although Serena was awake and sitting in her carrier right there on the table. It was as if we were sharing something so delicate even a loud voice would destroy it.

“What’s happening today?” Barbara asked Steve.

“I’m having lunch with Mike.” He turned to me. “He’s a friend from college.” I nodded.

“I’m dropping off the manuscript I finished yesterday,” Barbara said.

“Why don’t you just send a messenger?”

“It’s better if the editors see you. It reminds them you’re a real human being who needs more work. Besides, I need to get out into the real world occasionally.”

Steve nodded at Barbara and then turned to me. “What about you?”

I shrugged. “I have no plans. I’ll just help Barbara with Serena and whatever.” Steve nodded. I suddenly felt the need to explain. “Once I find out that I got into the school, I’ll start looking for a job. But right now my life’s kind of in limbo. If I don’t get in—”

Steve nodded. “It’s okay. We understand.”

“And I have the mothers’ group tonight after dinner,” Barbara said. “So don’t be late coming home.”

Steve smiled as he got up from the table. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he had done the morning before, Steve kissed each of the three of us in turn on his way out. For the briefest moment, it seemed completely normal.

As Barbara and I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, she told me about the mothers’ group she attended on Thursday nights. “It’s mostly the women I attended Lamaze classes with, plus a few others. We all just liked each other so much, we felt it would be a good idea to keep meeting afterwards. The Lamaze instructor lets us use the space she gave the classes in. It’s really great. We talk about problems we have, with nursing or with getting the babies to sleep or whatever. It’s very reassuring to hear that other women are having the same difficulties you’re having.”

“I’ll bet.”

“It’s only a few hours that one night a week, but it makes me feel like I’m not completely alone in this.”

“But you’re not alone. You have Steve.”

“And he’s great, but he’s not a mother. He just doesn’t know what I’m going through. He can’t.”

The fact that Steve and I would be alone together that evening hung over the day, casting a strange shadow on the time Barbara and I spent together. They both knew what had occurred between Barbara and me when we were alone together. What were they each expecting to happen when Steve and I were alone?

In preparation for going out that night, Barbara used a breast pump periodically during the day to fill a bottle with her own milk. I watched, fascinated, as Barbara evacuated whatever milk Serena didn’t drink each time she nursed.

Just after lunch, Barbara left to deliver the work she had completed. I walked aimlessly around the apartment. I played briefly with Serena in her playpen. I tried to continue the crocheting I’d begun the other night and became immediately confused. I looked at my flute case but did not open it. I sat on the broad windowsill and worked on my journal and stared at the traffic on the avenue below and thought about my life.

The telephone interrupted my meditations. I debated whether or not to let it ring, and then hurried over to answer it. “Hello? Andrews' residence,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Over the telephone, I heard a man laugh. “Nona? It’s Steve,” he said, still amused.

“Oh. Hi,” I said, feeling flustered, like a young teenager. “I didn’t know how—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Is Barbara there?”

“No, she’s delivering the manuscript she finished working on. She said she’d be back in about forty-five minutes. I’ll tell her you called.”

“It’s nothing important.” He paused.

“Okay.”

“Nona?”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking I want to do a watercolor of you.”

I turned and looked at the nude he had painted of Barbara.

“Nona?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think of that? Do you think you might like to pose for me?”

I stared at the portrait of Barbara and felt an ache inside me. “Yes.”

“Maybe we could work on it tonight, while Barbara’s at her mothers’ group.”

“Yes,” I said, full of a sudden excitement. “Yes.”

“Okay. Tell Barbara it’s nothing important. Tell her I love her. I’ll see you later.”

We hung up. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes and thought about Steve and Barbara and put my hand under my skirt and made myself come.

“Hi. Anything doing?” Barbara asked when she returned.

“Steve called but he said it wasn’t anything important,” I said. “He asked me to tell you he loves you.”

She smiled, and I felt a strange guilt. Although I felt extremely close toward her, I knew that I was not going to tell her about my conversation with Steve, or his suggestion.

“How’s Serena doing?” she asked.

“She’s been fine.”

On cue, Serena started to whimper, and Barbara went to the playpen and scooped her up.

Steve came home at his usual time, and as usual he kissed the three of us in turn. This time, it seemed he gave me a conspiratorial smile.

Dinner was hurried—Barbara was getting a ride to her meeting, and she wanted to be ready for it. I kept waiting for Steve to bring up his idea, or Barbara to ask us how we were planning to spend our evening together, but neither did. Instead, Steve talked about his workday, and Barbara talked about her meeting with her editor. I said very little.

After dinner, Steve cleared the table and I washed the dishes as Barbara nursed Serena, put her in her crib, and then expressed a little more milk into the bottle she had been filling all day. She had just put on a nursing bra when the buzzer sounded and she jumped up.

“You don’t have to wait up for me,” she said to Steve and me. We were standing side by side in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes. I turned off the water and dried my hands on a dishtowel. “You have fun,” she said, smiling and giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

I smiled back at her, but did not know what to say. I could not tell whether her remark was meant to be especially meaningful.

She turned to her husband and gave him a longer, more intimate kiss. “Hmm,” he said. “We’re going to miss you.”

“I’ll bet,” she said with a small laugh.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You two have fun. I’ll be home my usual time. There’s milk for Serena in the fridge if she’s hungry.” The downstairs buzzer rang again. “Gotta go.”

She hurried to the intercom. “I’ll be right down,” she said into the metal grille. A metallic voice replied something unintelligible.

Barbara picked up her purse and was gone.

As soon as I heard the door to the apartment close and latch, I felt a dull ache in my belly and my chest. Our work in the kitchen was done, but Steve and I still stood there, not quite looking at each other.

“Have you thought about my suggestion?” he asked quietly.

“You mean, to paint me?”

“Yes.”

“All day,” I admitted.

“What do you think?”

“It’s very flattering,” I said, and laughed suddenly. “It makes me nervous, for some reason.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I still was unable to look at him except obliquely, like a child caught in a lie. “Everything makes me nervous.”

“Do you want to give it a try?” he suggested.

I laughed again. “Sure. Why not?”

“Great. I’ll go get set up,” he said, walking past me out of the kitchen area.

“If I’m going to have to hold still for any length of time, I better go pee first,” I said, and went into the bathroom. When I came out, the blinds had been lowered and Steve had set up an easel at the windows, facing into the room. He seemed to be absorbed in thought and apparently did not hear me.

“Where do you want me to go?” I asked.

He looked up, unstartled. “Why don’t you just sit on the couch there?” he suggested, pointing to the couch on which I had slept the first night, which was at an angle to his easel. “Sit with your back against the side, with your arm along the backrest and your legs up on the seat.”

I crossed the room and sat down as he had told me. “Like this?” I asked, feeling terribly self-conscious.

He smiled a sweet, indulgent smile. “Like that, but without your clothes on,” he said.

I laughed giddily. “I wasn’t sure what you meant.”

“Is that okay?”

My heart was pounding very hard. I felt foolish and naïve. After all, he had seen me naked. We had made love. “Of course,” I said, with a resoluteness I did not feel, and stood up and very quickly took off the clothing I was wearing, painfully uncomfortable, with the awareness of his calm eyes on me.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said softly, once I was naked.

“Thank you,” I said, barely able to speak, as I assumed the position I had taken earlier. “Like this?” I asked.

“Bring your left knee up. Put the left foot flat on the cushion,” he said. I did what he told me. “Let your right hand rest on your right thigh.” I moved my hand onto my thigh. It felt stiff and unnatural. “No, just relax. Let your shoulder drop. Loosen your elbow. Turn your hand over. Just let it fall there.”I tried to follow his directions, but they seemed to make no sense. I laughed nervously. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He stepped from behind the easel and walked over to me, kneeling next to the couch. “You look like you’re waiting to see the dentist. Just relax,” he said, putting one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hand. I felt a flush of warmth where he touched me. “It’s okay,” he said, gently squeezing my hand.

I turned toward him. “I’ve never posed for anyone before,” I said.

Our eyes locked on each other’s, and I felt a wonderful warmth flood through me. I knew what I had not allowed myself to know all day: that we were going to make love. I was so excited my scalp felt tight.

He rose a little higher on his knees and kissed me on the lips. His kiss was slow and gentle and sensual, and my mouth opened to his. His hand left mine and rose to my breast. He kissed me for a long time. My sex felt so swollen and wet, it was as if he was kissing me between my legs.

I knew it was inevitable that we would make love, but there was still a point of resistance. I took my lips from his. “What about Barbara?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear what she said?” he asked urgently, almost whispering, and kissed me again. “‘You two have fun. Don’t worry about me.’ She was giving us permission. She wants us to make love tonight.”

I felt lightheaded, dizzy again. I took an enormous breath and let it out in a long sigh. Of course I had heard what she had said, and could not interpret it in any other way.

“Why?” I asked.

He gave me another small kiss on the lips. “Because she’s not afraid. She loves us, and she knows that we love her.”

A quiet voice in my mind told me that no matter what Barbara had said, I was courting disaster, but a much louder and persuasive voice in my chest and between my legs told me that I wanted this man at that moment more than anything else in the world. I put my hands on his shoulders and closed my eyes and drew him to me.

We made love hurriedly, without finesse, like a couple of furtive teenagers, right there on the couch, with all the lights still on. Neither of us had the patience for Steve to undress completely. I lay on my back on the narrow couch, and he pumped into me frantically, as if he had not had a woman in a long time. The very impatience of his lovemaking was extremely exciting, and I raced toward my climax with him, lifting myself off the couch to thrust my pelvis against his. He clutched my bottom in both hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurt, and I dug my fingers into his shoulders as I fought to keep up with him. We were no longer kissing, needing our mouths open to get enough air to power our efforts and for the animal noises we were making. I came before he did, my orgasm feeling like a seam of heat and pleasure ripping me apart from my groin to my throat. His orgasm came a moment later, loud and almost frighteningly violent. After his spasms subsided, he collapsed upon me, and I relaxed the grip I had on his shoulders and let my legs down from his waist. My heart was beating crazily. We were both out of breath and covered with sweat.

After a few minutes, he gave me a small kiss on the edge of my mouth and sat up. “Do you still want to pose for me?” he asked with a playful smile.

“Okay. Let me wash my face first.”

“No,” he said, standing and pulling up his pants, but not bothering to button his shirt or even tuck it in. “Don’t wash. Just sit up.”

We looked at each other a moment. Finally, I nodded. “Okay,” I said, sitting up and assuming the pose he had arranged me in earlier. “Like this?” I asked. I felt entirely at ease with my nudity now.

“Yes. Perfect,” he said, looking at me from behind his easel, his pencil already moving quickly over the surface of the paper. After perhaps half an hour, he put down the pencil and began to work with brush and paint.

It was strange and exciting to sit there naked, as still as I could, with his fluids slowly seeping out between my labia, his eyes intently on me, on my nakedness, the memory of our lovemaking still fresh in my body. I wanted to feel his arms around me again, to nestle against his chest, to feel him grow hungry and hard for me again.

“Okay!” he announced, just as I was about to tell him that I had to go to the bathroom. “You can move now.”

“May I see?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I stood up, acutely aware of the sticky fluids at the mouth of my sex, and walked barefoot to the front of the easel.

“What do you think?” he asked, putting an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me to him. “I might add a little detail, after it’s dry, but it’s basically finished.”

It was shocking and surprising to see myself so deftly captured in the painting. It was unmistakably me. I had a slight smile, playful and confident. I looked proud of my body, sure of my desirability. I had not intended to pose suggestively, but I looked lascivious.

I laughed, covering my face with both of my hands, no longer so comfortable or confident. “It’s wonderful,” I said, “but I’m not sure I want anyone to see it.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s yours. That way, you can decide who sees it and who doesn’t.”

I showered and put on the nightgown Barbara had given me. While Steve was in the bathroom, I returned to the easel and stared at his portrait of me as if at a tantalizing puzzle. While I was in the bathroom, I saw, he had cleaned up his work. The paints were all closed, and the brushes were all washed, standing up in a glass jar.

Just as Steve came out of the bathroom in a fresh pair of the black silk pajamas he favored, Serena started crying. “I’ll go warm up the bottle Barbara left.”

“I’ll go get her,” I said. “What time will Barbara be back?”

“She’s usually not back until about eleven-thirty,” he said.

On my way to Serena’s crib, I looked at the clock behind their bed. It was only a little after nine-thirty. I was surprised. It seemed deep into the night.

By now Serena was crying enthusiastically, and I picked her up as gently as I could, cradling her against my chest and cooing to her, promising her milk, promising her her mother, telling her that everything was all right. She did not believe me.

After a few minutes, Steve pronounced the bottle he had placed in the pot of water on the stove warm enough, and I handed him his daughter. He sat on a kitchen chair and smiled down at her with enormous love. I had never seen him give Serena the bottle before, and I was touched at how sweetly and tenderly he cradled her. She blinked up at him as he whispered to her, her small, sweet face sleepy and confused.

“I’ll go turn off the lights,” I said. “They seem to hurt her eyes.”

When I came back to the kitchen, the apartment in darkness except for the light coming from the street. Serena was asleep again. I put the bottle back in the refrigerator as Steve put the baby into her crib.

“I guess we might as well go to bed, too,” Steve said, as we met in the dark living room.

“I guess so,” I said.

We met in the middle of the bed, under the single sheet. I snuggled up against him, feeling secure against his chest, his arm around me.

He sighed deeply and turned on his side toward me. “I want to make love with you again,” he said, drawing me against himself powerfully. Through our nightclothes, I felt his penis against my groin. He was already hard.

This time, we made love more slowly, as if to make up for our previous haste. We kissed a long time. He caressed my breasts tenderly, squeezing them, licking my nipples, sucking on them, nibbling them. He reached between my legs and stroked me with an exquisite tenderness, until I longed to feel him inside me again. When he finally entered me, it felt as if he were made especially for me, and I for him, so perfectly did he seem to fill me. He reached beneath me and held my bottom in both hands, guiding me to him with every stroke.

My arousal rose imperceptibly but inevitably higher and higher. The silk of his pajamas against my bare skin was delicious. The silk of his penis inside me was indescribable.

He rose up on his knees, withdrawing from me. It was, momentarily, a puzzling shock. Then, with his hands on my hips, he indicated that he wanted me to turn over.

I rarely made love in that position, but I followed the suggestions of his hands unresistingly, arranging myself on my knees and elbows. It was the position he and Barbara had assumed that first night, when I had watched them make love. I felt atavistic, bestial, like nothing more than a female animal in heat, offering herself to the dominant male. I had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, more yielding.

Immediately, I felt his penis enter me again. It seemed it was deeper than I had ever felt a man inside me before, deeper than I knew was possible. Leaning over me, he caressed one of my breasts with one hand and my sex with the other. He was moving quickly now, and with every stroke I felt his hips rock against my bottom. I remembered watching him make love with Barbara, remembered imagining myself in Barbara’s place. Now, imagining myself lying on the couch and watching myself, with Steve’s penis filling me to the womb and his hands everywhere on me, I overflowed with pleasure.

I woke up with a start to the sound of the apartment door opening. How would Barbara feel to see me in bed with her husband? She had all but told us it was all right with her, but I still felt a glow of guilt and apprehension in my stomach.

The door closed quietly, and I heard what sounded like Barbara putting down her keys and her purse and taking off her shoes. I was nestled against Steve, who was lying on his stomach at the side of the bed. Although he was facing away from me, I could tell that he was asleep. I moved apart from him, to the opposite side, rolled onto my belly, and closed my eyes.

My eyes still closed, I listened to Barbara padding about the apartment on bare feet. It sounded as if she walked over to the bed to look at us, and then over to the crib to check on Serena. After a few moments, she walked back past the bed and into the bathroom.

When she came out and approached the bed again, I wanted to open my eyes and end the pretense that I was asleep, but I could not. I kept my head half-buried in the pillow and my eyes closed, breathing as evenly as I could.

I felt a shift of weight at the foot of the bed. She crawled up the center of the bed, between Steve and me, and lay down with a sigh. She lay without moving for perhaps a minute, and then she rolled on her side, away from me, toward Steve.

She was not still. I sensed that she was trying to rouse him, gently kissing and caressing him. After a little while, I heard him make a sound of protest, and felt him roll over.

“Hi, sweetie,” he whispered sleepily. “How was your group tonight?”

“Awful,” she whispered back. “I kept thinking about the two of you here together. What did you do while I was gone?”

“I painted her portrait.”

“Nude. I’ll bet.”

“Yes. It really turned out well.”

“Did you make love with her?”

He did not answer. My heart and my loins were pounding.

“Did you?”

“Yes. You said...”

She sighed deeply. “It’s okay. I knew you would. How many times?”

“Twice.”

She sighed again. “Make love to me now,” she whispered. “I want you very badly.”

“I don’t know if...”

I felt another shift of weight. “It feels like you’ll be able to manage.”

I felt them moving together on the bed as they fitted themselves into each other’s limbs and heard them kissing.

“We’re going to wake her up,” he whispered.

“I don’t care,” she said.

The movements on the bed had assumed a slow, regular rhythm, and I knew that he was inside her. My heart was pounding and my body was aching everywhere, but especially in my breasts and in my sex, which felt warm and thick and full and heavy. I didn’t know what to do. I lay there, unable to move, as I felt the rhythm grow faster and heard Barbara’s sighs grow deeper. It was just like that first night, when I lay on the couch across the room pretending to be asleep as they made love.

I wanted to join them, but I was afraid to. She needed him all to herself then, to reclaim him, to reaffirm their connection. But their lovemaking was even more arousing than it had been that first night. Surreptitiously, I brought my nearer hand under myself, under my nightgown, to my sex. With one finger, I stroked myself rapidly.

Steve was moving very quickly now, and Barbara was sighing loudly and deeply. It was absurd to pretend that I was still sleeping, but I continued the pretense, not moving except for my one finger, around which my body, the bed, the room, the entire universe, seemed to be spinning.

Barbara made a loud, wrenching sound, and the bed seemed to quiver and shake. In the next moment, Steve made a startled, guttural sound. I could almost feel him inside me, filling me, emptying himself into me. I stroked my clitoris another time and, keeping as still and as silent as I could, felt my orgasm flood through me.

Beside me, Steve and Barbara were still. Unable to keep apart from them any longer, I rolled over to face them. Steve was lying between her legs. They both turned toward me. We all looked at one another in the shadowy darkness. I could not read their expressions at all.