Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese [253]
“Do you want me to leave now?” she said.
In that question, I felt that she was taking control because there was only one possible answer: “You're sleeping here.”
“I'm burning up,” she said.
I changed into my boxers and T-shirt in the bathroom, took a blanket from the wardrobe, and headed for the library.
“Stay with me?” she said. “Please?”
I had no reply planned for that.
I climbed into my bed. When I reached for the light, she said, “Please leave it on.”
No sooner had I lain down than she pressed against me, smelling of my deodorant, my shampoo, and Vicks. She raised my arm and huddled in the crook of my shoulder, her damp body against me. Her fingers touched my face, very gingerly, as if she worried that I might bite. I remembered that night so many years ago when I had found her naked in the pantry.
“What's that sound?” she said, startled.
“It's the dryer alarm. I washed your clothes.”
I heard her sniffle. Then sob. “You deserved better,” she said, looking up.
“Yes, I did.”
I stared at her eyes, remembering the little fleck in the right iris, and the puff of gray around it, where a spark had penetrated. Yes, it was still there, darker now, looking like a blemish she was born with. I traced her lips. Her nose. She shut her lids at my touch. Tears were sliding underneath them. She smiled a smile from our days of innocence. I took my hand away. She opened her lids, her eyes glistening. Hesitantly she kissed my lips.
No, I hadn't forgotten. At that moment, my anger wasn't so much with her as it was with the passage of time. Time had robbed me of such wonderful illusions, taken them away far too soon. But right then I wanted the illusion that she was mine.
She kissed me again, and I tasted the salt of her tears. Was she feeling sorry for me? I couldn't take that, ever. Suddenly I was on top of her, tearing away the sheet, tearing away her towel, clumsy but determined. She was startled, the muscles of her neck taut like cables. I grabbed her head and kissed her.
“Wait,” she whispered, “shouldn't you … ?”
But I was already inside her.
She winced.
“Shouldn't I what, Genet?” I said as I bucked, my pelvis possessing some intrinsic knowledge of the movements needed. “This is my first time …,” I managed to say. “I wouldn't know what I should or shouldn't do.”
Her pupils dilated. Was she pleased to learn this about me?
Now she knew.
Now she knew that there were people in this world who kept their promises. Ghosh, whose deathbed she never had the time to visit, was one such person. I wanted the knowledge to shame her, to terrify her. When it was over, I stayed on top of her.
“My first time, Genet …,” I said, softly. “Don't think that's because I was waiting for you. It's because you fucked my life up. You could have counted on me. Money in the bank, as they say here. And what did you do? You turned it all into shit. I wanted to make life beautiful for you. I don't understand it really, Genet. You had Hema and Ghosh. You had Missing. You had me who loved you more than you will ever love yourself.”
She wept under me. After a long time, she gently caressed my head, tried to kiss me. She said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
I ignored her. I was aroused again. I began to move inside her once more.
“Please, Marion,” she said.
Without removing myself from within her, I rolled onto my back, holding her, flipping her, and setting her on top of me, her breasts hovering over me.
“You need to pee? Go ahead,” I said, my breath coming quick. “You've done that before, too.”
I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to me hard. I smelled her fever, and the scent of blood and sex and urine. I came again.
Then I let go. I let