Sophie's Choice - William Styron [302]
“Christ, Sophie,” I said in vague panic, “what time is it? I slept like a corpse.”
“I heard the bell ring in the church outside just now. I think it rang three o’clock.”
I stirred drowsily, stroking her arm. “We’ve got to move out, as they used to say in the service. We can’t hang around here all afternoon. I want you to see the White House, the Capitol, the Washington Monument. Also Ford’s Theatre, you know, where Lincoln was shot. And the Lincoln Memorial. There’s so many damned things. And we might think of getting a bite to eat...”
“I’m not at all hungry,” she replied. “But I do want to see the city. I feel so much better after that sleep.”
“You went out like a light,” I said.
“So did you. When I woke up, there you were with your mouth open, snoring.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, feeling a touch of real consternation. “I don’t snore. I’ve never snored in my life! No one ever told me that before.”
“It’s because you haven’t ever slept with anybody,” she retorted in a teasing voice. And then she bent down and glued upon my lips a wonderful moist rubbery kiss, replete with a surprising tongue which made a quick playful foray in my mouth, then vanished. She returned to her propped-up position above me before I could even begin to respond, though my heart had begun a runaway thudding. “God, Sophie,” I began, “don’t do that unless—” I reached up and wiped my lips.
“Stingo,” she interrupted me, “where are we going?”
A little puzzled, I said, “I just told you. We’re going out to see the Washington sights. We’ll go by the White House, we might even get a look at Harry Truman—“
“No, Stingo,” she put in, more seriously now, “I mean, where are we really going? Last night after Nathan—Well, last night after he done what he done and we were packing our bags so fast, all you kept saying was ‘We’ve got to get back home, back home!’ Over and over you said ‘Back home!’ And I just followed you like this because I was so scared, and here we are together in this strange city and I really don’t know why. Where are we truly going? What home?”
“Well, you know, Sophie, I told you. We’re going to that farm I told you about down in southern Virginia. There’s nothing much I can add to what I’ve already described to you about the place. It’s a peanut farm mainly. I’ve never seen it, but my father has said it’s very comfortable, with all the modern American conveniences. You know—washing machine, refrigerator, telephone, indoor plumbing, radio and everything. The works. After we get settled I’m sure we’ll be able to drive up to Richmond and invest in a fine phonograph and lots of records. All the music we both love. There’s a department store there called Miller and Rhoads that has an excellent record department, at least it did when I was going to school down in Middlesex—“
Now again she interrupted, saying gently but probingly, “ ‘Once we get settled’? What’s going to happen then? How do you mean ‘get settled,’ Stingo dear?”
There was a huge and troubling vacuum created by this question which I could not possibly fill with an immediate answer, so freighted with ponderous meaning did I realize that the answer now had to be, and I gave a sort of foolish gulp and was silent for a long moment, aware of the blood flowing in rapid arrhythmic pulse at my temples, and of the desolate tomblike quietude of that shabby little room. Finally I said slowly, but with more ease and boldness than I thought I could ever muster, “Sophie, I’m in love with you. I want to marry you. I want us to live down on that farm together. I want to write my books there, maybe for the rest of my life, and I want you to be there with me and help me and raise a family.” I hesitated for an instant, then said, “I need you very much. So very, very much. Is it too much to hope that you need me too?” Even as I pronounced these words I was aware that they had the exact timbre and quavering resonance of a proposal I had once seen and heard George Brent, of all the solemn assholes, make to Olivia de Havilland on the promenade