Read Online Whisper Their Love by Valerie Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Taylor
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around her felt light and clear, the way it feels after a summer thunderstorm.
Later? Blurred by emotion and codeine, her memory refused to give up any definite picture of what had happened. I must have had a bath, she decided, because I can remember the warm water. Or was that some other time? No, because I was all sticky and sweaty from crying, and all. She sniffed cautiously, turning down the folded sheet. She smelled clean, and there was a nightgown of some thin crisp stuff, but she never wore anything but pajamas, so somebody must have helped her get to bed.
Once when she was in third or fourth grade she had had measles. She remembered a lot of things quite clearly from those days in bed, isolated scenes that stood out with photographic sharpness: Aunt Gen's round face looking sober, and Aunt Gen's hands, with the nails unpolished and cut short and the skin a little rough from gardening and housework. But what she liked to remember, nights when she was falling asleep, was that Mimi had come and sat beside her bed. She still didn't know who had called Mimi, or why—maybe she was sicker than the grownups let on—but there was a magic moment when she stood in the doorway and everything in the world was absolutely all right.
She felt that way now.
For a little while she floated contentedly between sleeping and waking. Then the door opened—not the bedroom door but the one beyond that led into the corridor—and there were two sets of steps. The light tap-tap of high heels and the solid thud of a man's shoes planted firmly. Edith Bannister said something, but the words blurred and ran together. A deep voice answered. Joyce stiffened. Edith said, "That's silly, Roger. I always like to talk to you. It happens I'm tired tonight, though, so good night."
"Sometimes I think you're frigid."
"Think what you please. It would be a little spectacular, though, if somebody came in and found you here. Or don't you think so? After all, both of us are responsible for the manners and morals of all these innocent teen-agers."
"Oh, hell."
There was a small silence, about long enough for a ritual good-night kiss. Then the outside door closed. Joyce heard Edith moving around her study the way a woman does when she comes in at night, taking off her hat, lighting a cigarette, dropping her earrings on the desk.
The bedroom door opened. A blade of light flashed in. "Hi. How do you feel?"
"My head feels funny."
"That's the codeine," Edith said. "Dr. Prince prescribed it for Sally when she broke her leg last spring—lucky I had some left." She crossed the floor, laid a cool hand on Joyce's forehead. "You better stay in bed tomorrow." She switched on the bedside lamp.
Joyce shut her eyes again. She felt completely safe and cared for. She could feel her mouth curve in a relaxed smile.
"Look here, you're not still worrying, are you?"
Something dark and ominous stirred in the back of her mind. She opened her eyes and looked, but the dean's face was impassive. Only something looked out of her eyes, gray-hazel, like Mimi's. Compassion, or concern, or even affection. Joyce opened her mouth, but no words came out. Edith Bannister leaned over her. "Listen to me. No one gets a baby from the first time. The chances are very small, anyway; starting a baby isn't so easy as all that."
"Suppose it happened, though?"
"If it happened," Edith Bannister said in a light, crisp voice, "we would arrange a little operation and in a few days you would be all right again. It's very simple. But it isn't going to happen, so you may as well stop worrying and get some sleep."
She lay still and tried to believe this. Her mind had circled around the idea of pregnancy so long that she couldn't give it up now. Warm tears squeezed out from under her closed eyelids, making them sting. Edith said with quiet scorn, "Men. They never think about anything except themselves and their own needs. They're such fools. Forget it, Joyce. I tell you everything will be all
Later? Blurred by emotion and codeine, her memory refused to give up any definite picture of what had happened. I must have had a bath, she decided, because I can remember the warm water. Or was that some other time? No, because I was all sticky and sweaty from crying, and all. She sniffed cautiously, turning down the folded sheet. She smelled clean, and there was a nightgown of some thin crisp stuff, but she never wore anything but pajamas, so somebody must have helped her get to bed.
Once when she was in third or fourth grade she had had measles. She remembered a lot of things quite clearly from those days in bed, isolated scenes that stood out with photographic sharpness: Aunt Gen's round face looking sober, and Aunt Gen's hands, with the nails unpolished and cut short and the skin a little rough from gardening and housework. But what she liked to remember, nights when she was falling asleep, was that Mimi had come and sat beside her bed. She still didn't know who had called Mimi, or why—maybe she was sicker than the grownups let on—but there was a magic moment when she stood in the doorway and everything in the world was absolutely all right.
She felt that way now.
For a little while she floated contentedly between sleeping and waking. Then the door opened—not the bedroom door but the one beyond that led into the corridor—and there were two sets of steps. The light tap-tap of high heels and the solid thud of a man's shoes planted firmly. Edith Bannister said something, but the words blurred and ran together. A deep voice answered. Joyce stiffened. Edith said, "That's silly, Roger. I always like to talk to you. It happens I'm tired tonight, though, so good night."
"Sometimes I think you're frigid."
"Think what you please. It would be a little spectacular, though, if somebody came in and found you here. Or don't you think so? After all, both of us are responsible for the manners and morals of all these innocent teen-agers."
"Oh, hell."
There was a small silence, about long enough for a ritual good-night kiss. Then the outside door closed. Joyce heard Edith moving around her study the way a woman does when she comes in at night, taking off her hat, lighting a cigarette, dropping her earrings on the desk.
The bedroom door opened. A blade of light flashed in. "Hi. How do you feel?"
"My head feels funny."
"That's the codeine," Edith said. "Dr. Prince prescribed it for Sally when she broke her leg last spring—lucky I had some left." She crossed the floor, laid a cool hand on Joyce's forehead. "You better stay in bed tomorrow." She switched on the bedside lamp.
Joyce shut her eyes again. She felt completely safe and cared for. She could feel her mouth curve in a relaxed smile.
"Look here, you're not still worrying, are you?"
Something dark and ominous stirred in the back of her mind. She opened her eyes and looked, but the dean's face was impassive. Only something looked out of her eyes, gray-hazel, like Mimi's. Compassion, or concern, or even affection. Joyce opened her mouth, but no words came out. Edith Bannister leaned over her. "Listen to me. No one gets a baby from the first time. The chances are very small, anyway; starting a baby isn't so easy as all that."
"Suppose it happened, though?"
"If it happened," Edith Bannister said in a light, crisp voice, "we would arrange a little operation and in a few days you would be all right again. It's very simple. But it isn't going to happen, so you may as well stop worrying and get some sleep."
She lay still and tried to believe this. Her mind had circled around the idea of pregnancy so long that she couldn't give it up now. Warm tears squeezed out from under her closed eyelids, making them sting. Edith said with quiet scorn, "Men. They never think about anything except themselves and their own needs. They're such fools. Forget it, Joyce. I tell you everything will be all
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