Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [125]
Richard was on his feet and yanking on the butler’s cord as though it were a fire alarm.
After the disastrous meal, made more so when Leah ordered liver and onions and there were none to be found, she made herself comfortable on a settee and turned the pages of the latest Jack London work, the novel John Barleycorn, with exacting slowness. Richard frowned when she lit a cigarette, but said nothing. He decided to let Leah have that one out with his mother, directly.
She looked over the top of the book to her badly disoriented husband. “Jack London,” Leah said, “stands for socialism and the working class. How many people does your father employ?”
“Including the department store—and we sell farm equipment and supplies, and there are some orchards, which are share-cropped—and the traveling peddlers and vendors ... I would say there are about fifty.”
“I suppose the word ‘union’ is a dirty word by you?”
“We don’t think about it too much on the Eastern Shore.”
“To say the least. They don’t even know the Civil War is over the way they treat the shvartzers on the Eastern Shore.”
“Don’t you think we ought to turn in, Leah. You know ... turn in?”
“You take a snooze, Richard. This book has me absolutely enthralled.”
Well past midnight, Richard Schneider still lay awake. When Leah had had her fill of Jack London, he could hear her move about, and this caused him to breathe audibly. He waited and waited, but she did not come to bed. Richard turned on the bedside lamp to see Leah sleeping on the chaise longue. He pulled himself together, flung off the quilt, and fell to his knees beside her.
“Leah,” he cried, “Leah!”
She stirred, ever so slightly. “Richard. You woke me up. I was in a deep sleep. You don’t wake someone up from a deep sleep shouting at them.”
“I want you!” he croaked, stroking her hair clumsily.
“Oh, my dear Richard. I am so sorry. I’m having my menstrual period. I have terrible cramps and my back doesn’t feel good, either. Why, Richard, your face is soaking wet with perspiration. You shouldn’t have such a look in your eyes. You look like a madman.”
BY THE FIFTH NIGHT, Richard was exhausted from the lack of sleep. Erma remarked several times about how badly her son looked, but Morris knew what was what.
“They’re honeymooners,” Morris said; “a little too much nooky.”
“Morris! Don’t use that revolting word!”
“Lovemaking,” he corrected.
Richard had a silent dinner with his parents. Leah was under the weather, again. When the meal was done, Richard stormed up to his suite, entered angrily, and slammed the bedroom door behind him. “I can’t stand it any longer!” he shouted.
“You’re so impetuous.”
“I demand my husbandly rights!”
“Richard, I’m still not well.”
“You are! I checked.”
“You did what?”
“I checked the trash can in the bathroom.”
“Oh my God, that’s disgusting.”
“Just which one of us is being disgusting?”
Leah wept very softly. “You have to understand, I’m quite delicate, Richard.”
“I realize that. But ... but after all, we’re married. ... Please don’t cry, Leah, please don’t.”
When the bedroom was darkened, Leah slipped beneath the covers filled with determination now to get through this experience, not only without being hurt, but holding the upper hand. Leah removed her nightgown and waited.
Richard groped for her and, upon touching actual flesh, completely lost control. “Oh my God,” he repeated, as his hands found breasts and buttocks, “oh my God!”
Leah strung it out. She waited ... waited ... encouraged a bit ... then held him back. He was going completely wild. As suddenly as he had begun, he stopped, then started crying.
“Oh, Richard,” she said, “you’ve made a mess all over the sheets. Oh, it’s awful ... awful ... shame, shame, shame.” She threw off the covers, ran into the bathroom, and slammed and bolted the door.
Richard rolled over in agony, grabbing the sheets and shaking with anger and mortification.
EACH NIGHT FOR the balance of the honeymoon, there was a variation