A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [32]
“It’ll be crumby as hell, probably,” Nick says, looking suspiciously at the multi-tinted posters.
He’s quite right, as it turns out. The film is indifferent, improbable. I can’t seem to concentrate on it. I don’t know what it’s about. I can hear him breathing, beside me, and he’s sprawled a little in the seat, close by.
If he puts his arm around me, will I move closer or away? He won’t, of course. The High School kids do that. He’s thirty-five, not fifteen. He is past such gauche and public performances. What are you worried about, Rachel? I’m not worried. I’m perfectly all right. Well, relax, then. I am relaxed. Oh? Shut up. Just shut up.
He does not shift himself in the movie seat to be even six inches closer. Well, why should he? Who would want to? We have discussed this a long time ago, you and I, Rachel. Haven’t you seen it yet?
“Would you like some coffee?” Nick asks, when the picture is over.
I would, but somehow I don’t want to walk into the Regal Café or the Parthenon. Like putting on an act which everyone would know for what it was, a charade.
“Oh, thanks, but I think I’d better get straight home. Mother has a kind of uncertain heart. I’m always a little concerned in case –”
“Are you?” Nick says. “Okay, then.”
When we get to Japonica Street and the blue neon, he stops the car.
“Thanks, Rachel.”
“Thank you.”
He laughs. “How polite you are. Are you always?”
“Well –”
But before I can say anything – not knowing anyway what could be said – he reaches over and puts his hands on my shoulders. He kisses gently and exploringly. I am – as though undecided. But it’s unreal, anyway. If it isn’t happening, one might as well do what one wants. His tongue is rough-textured and wet and has its own life inside my mouth. It is he who draws away, after a while, not me.
“Well,” he says.
Is he surprised, or what? I resent his surprise, if it is that. I’d like to let him know that I can want, too. I’m thirty-four. That’s not old. I haven’t fossilized. Why do people assume it’s so different for men? Is he laughing?
When he kisses me again, I hold myself against him and feel the bones of his shoulders and his ribs, through his clothes. The skin on his face doesn’t smell of anything extraneous, nothing like shaving lotion or soap, only of himself. And when I put my face against his, and breathe him in – oh my God. Now I really do want him. Now I would do anything –
Yet he’s put his hand on my breasts and I have actually pushed him away. He doesn’t resist. He accepts it. Why wouldn’t he? He didn’t want to touch me all that much.
“I’ve – got to go in, now.” I suppose it must be my voice, although God only knows what it is saying. “I mean – Mother will be wondering where I am, you see, and –”
“That wouldn’t do, would it?” he says.
He traces with his hand a line down my face, from my temple and across my cheekbone and down to my mouth. He is smiling in the darkness. I can’t see his smile but I know it is there, from his voice. It hurts as much as if he’d slapped me. More.
“See you, Rachel,” he says.
“Yes – I hope – I hope so,” I am inexcusably saying.
Everything is automatic, walking up the sidewalk, hearing the car zoom away, opening the door and walking up the stairs. It is not the moment to think of anything. Only – is Mother in bed yet? Is she asleep? Is she awake, and has she noticed the car parked out there? How long a time has it been?
“Rachel?”
“Yes? Are you still awake?”
“Well, dear, I was beginning to drift off, but I don’t ever settle down too well until you’re in. Was it a good movie?”
“Very nice, thanks.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee, dear?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll go straight to bed. Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes. A little over-tired, maybe, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll be off to sleep in a while, probably, with any luck.”
She didn’t do the laundry, of course. I saw that as soon as I turned on the kitchen light.
“Did you have to take one of your heart pills?