with yourself, I hope?”
“That's not the question. Are you satisfied with me? That's the question.”
“Hey, what's your problem, Hy?”
“I'm comparing myself with—with that woman Bettina.”
“Oh, for God's sake!”
“We need to be honest with each other.”
“I thought we always were honest.”
“Oh,” she cried, “jealousy is so—so
low
! It humbles me.”
His eyes darkened, met hers, and held the look. This look of his, earnest, beseeching, and a little sad, she recognized.
“Darling Hyacinth, I'm sorry if I've hurt you, but you're being very, very silly. As if anybody could measure you against a total zero, a clotheshorse, a cheap flirt! Come on to bed. Don't be an idiot. Come on, or I'll drag you in. It's going on one o'clock.”
For long minutes she lay with her face buried in his shoulder, in the beloved flesh, while he murmured into her hair.
“Dear Hy, so sweet, so smart, and such a fool. An innocent. Isn't that what Francine calls you?”
She was filled with yearning. Her heart, her throat, her whole body wanted to blend with his, to become one with him.
“I would die for you,” she whispered.
“No, no, don't say that.”
“Yes, I would. Do you remember that woman on the
Titanic
? Straus was her name, Mrs. Straus. They wanted to put her in a lifeboat, but she wouldn't go. She wanted to die with her husband. I would have done that, too.”
“And I would have pushed you into the lifeboat. So that's enough of that talk. You know what you and I need?” His hands, warm and strong, pulled at the silk gown. “Take this fool thing off, will you?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I t was a mild afternoon in their second fall, so different from the chill, brisk weather of Massachusetts, that Hyacinth, talking on the telephone to a friend at home, had needed to remark as usual on the difference.
“They call it cool weather. It's down to eighty. Can you imagine? And football has started very, very seriously. The rivalries are like France against Germany in a world war. But it's all such fun. People are so informal here, so friendly, even in a big city. Oh, and I've learned all the words to ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas!”’
In this mood of well-being, she entered a doctor's office; half an hour later she left it, overwhelmed by surprise and wearing an uncontrollable smile.
“No method is a hundred percent reliable,” the doctor had said. He, too, was smiling. “June is a good month to have a baby, before the worst of the heat, if we're lucky.”
Obstetrics, she thought, must be for the most part a happy specialty. She seemed to be walking on springs, bouncing with every step. Bubbles in her chest popped in effervescence, like a champagne cork and the laughter that comes with it.
It was only four o'clock, which left two hours to contain her excitement until Gerald would be home. She wanted to sing, or stop some passerby, anyone at all, to tell the amazing news. One would think that civilization must come to a halt because of this baby. They had not planned to start a family until Gerald's stint at the hospital was over, and now this! But never mind; this baby was simply in a hurry to see the world. And she walked on, observing babies in carriages and strollers as she had never done before.
She had to buy something, had to commemorate this day. So she went on a spree, and when she returned to the parking lot, her arms were full of her purchases: a gigantic stuffed panda, a bouquet of asters, a bottle of real champagne, and a little cake.
Once home, she remembered that tomorrow her parents were coming. They were on the second leg of their visits to their sons and grandchildren. Next year at this time, they would have another grandchild to visit. We should get a better camera. This cake is too small. How could she have forgotten about tomorrow? In the morning she must run out and get another cake. Or maybe bake one if there was time. Home baking was always better, more welcoming. And another
“That's not the question. Are you satisfied with me? That's the question.”
“Hey, what's your problem, Hy?”
“I'm comparing myself with—with that woman Bettina.”
“Oh, for God's sake!”
“We need to be honest with each other.”
“I thought we always were honest.”
“Oh,” she cried, “jealousy is so—so
low
! It humbles me.”
His eyes darkened, met hers, and held the look. This look of his, earnest, beseeching, and a little sad, she recognized.
“Darling Hyacinth, I'm sorry if I've hurt you, but you're being very, very silly. As if anybody could measure you against a total zero, a clotheshorse, a cheap flirt! Come on to bed. Don't be an idiot. Come on, or I'll drag you in. It's going on one o'clock.”
For long minutes she lay with her face buried in his shoulder, in the beloved flesh, while he murmured into her hair.
“Dear Hy, so sweet, so smart, and such a fool. An innocent. Isn't that what Francine calls you?”
She was filled with yearning. Her heart, her throat, her whole body wanted to blend with his, to become one with him.
“I would die for you,” she whispered.
“No, no, don't say that.”
“Yes, I would. Do you remember that woman on the
Titanic
? Straus was her name, Mrs. Straus. They wanted to put her in a lifeboat, but she wouldn't go. She wanted to die with her husband. I would have done that, too.”
“And I would have pushed you into the lifeboat. So that's enough of that talk. You know what you and I need?” His hands, warm and strong, pulled at the silk gown. “Take this fool thing off, will you?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I t was a mild afternoon in their second fall, so different from the chill, brisk weather of Massachusetts, that Hyacinth, talking on the telephone to a friend at home, had needed to remark as usual on the difference.
“They call it cool weather. It's down to eighty. Can you imagine? And football has started very, very seriously. The rivalries are like France against Germany in a world war. But it's all such fun. People are so informal here, so friendly, even in a big city. Oh, and I've learned all the words to ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas!”’
In this mood of well-being, she entered a doctor's office; half an hour later she left it, overwhelmed by surprise and wearing an uncontrollable smile.
“No method is a hundred percent reliable,” the doctor had said. He, too, was smiling. “June is a good month to have a baby, before the worst of the heat, if we're lucky.”
Obstetrics, she thought, must be for the most part a happy specialty. She seemed to be walking on springs, bouncing with every step. Bubbles in her chest popped in effervescence, like a champagne cork and the laughter that comes with it.
It was only four o'clock, which left two hours to contain her excitement until Gerald would be home. She wanted to sing, or stop some passerby, anyone at all, to tell the amazing news. One would think that civilization must come to a halt because of this baby. They had not planned to start a family until Gerald's stint at the hospital was over, and now this! But never mind; this baby was simply in a hurry to see the world. And she walked on, observing babies in carriages and strollers as she had never done before.
She had to buy something, had to commemorate this day. So she went on a spree, and when she returned to the parking lot, her arms were full of her purchases: a gigantic stuffed panda, a bouquet of asters, a bottle of real champagne, and a little cake.
Once home, she remembered that tomorrow her parents were coming. They were on the second leg of their visits to their sons and grandchildren. Next year at this time, they would have another grandchild to visit. We should get a better camera. This cake is too small. How could she have forgotten about tomorrow? In the morning she must run out and get another cake. Or maybe bake one if there was time. Home baking was always better, more welcoming. And another
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