An Inconvenient Wife Part 21

His hand was on mine, holding me in place. "Why did you come, Lucy?" he said roughly against my ear. "Why are you here?"

"It doesn't matter. Truly. I'll go back home." I was crying again, and I dashed my hand across my eyes, muttering fiercely, "G.o.d, how stupid I am. What a silly, stupid woman."

I rose. It was a single step to the door. He was there suddenly too, grabbing my shoulder, forcing me to face him. I put my hands on his chest to push him from me. My vision was blurred, and I felt desperate in a way I could not explain, as if just his presence was too much; as if I could not find ground steady enough to hold me. "I'll be fine. If you'll just let me go."

He took hold of my wrists and moved my arms as if they were made of clay, pliable, elastic, down to my sides, trapping them there so I could not move, and then he kissed me.

I felt his lips on mine with a little shock, and then he was pressing against me, his body holding me to the door. I had both wanted and feared this, perhaps it was even what I had come to him to find, and I opened beneath him. He loosed my arms and put his hands on either side of my face, and I leaned in to him and followed when he pulled me with him to the bed and we fell onto the ragged quilt together. I did not hesitate but only reached for him when he backed away to slide up my cloak and skirt and petticoats, when he pushed between my legs. Though we were both clothed when he came inside me, it seemed I felt him with every part, that he freed me so I was thrusting against him, impatient, yearning, pleading, and then stunned as the pleasure coursed through me, leaving me mindless and crying out into his mouth, gripping him until he collapsed upon me with a final groan. We lay there for some time, it seemed, until the pleasure died, and I could not move for the intensity of my release.

When he stirred, I did not want him to go. But he slid from me and sat up, tucking and b.u.t.toning while I lay there with my clothing pressed up to my hips, my boots and stockings still on, my hat falling from my head, clinging to a loosened hat pin.

He sighed, and I became self-conscious. I pushed down my skirt and sat up. The hat pin fell out. My fingers trembled as I reached for my hat and held it in my lap, afraid to look at him, to look at anything but a burgundy rose and a jaunty dark green feather. I could not say anything, and I wanted him to stay silent as well; I did not think I could bear whatever it was he would say.

But then he turned to me, and his gaze caressed me, and I found myself saying, "I . . . I've never felt like that. Not even the electrotherapy . . ."

"Yes," he said quietly. "It's not the same." His eyes darkened and he said, "Someday I would like to see all of you."

I reached for the fastening of my cloak, embarra.s.singly quick, to please him. "Yes," I said. My breath came fast again; I looked at his mouth. "Yes, of course. Just let me-"

His hand came over mine, stopping it. "Not now," he said. "Not here."

I was disappointed. "Oh. I thought-"

"It's late."

"Surely it's not-"

"Where does William think you are?"

William. I had so completely forgotten him that when Victor spoke his name, it was like that of a stranger. I was horrified at what I'd done, at what we'd done, and I scrambled off the bed, shamed by the wetness between my legs, by the sc.r.a.pes of mud my boots had left on the quilt. "Oh, I didn't think . . ." I twisted my hat in my hand.

"Ssshhh," he said, coming to me, taking the hat from my hands. "It's all right, Lucy."

"No," I said desperately. "No, it's not all right."

"He keeps you caged."

"Yes," I said breathlessly. How much I craved the touch of him, already-so quickly-yielding to him again.

"You mustn't feel guilty for this. You needed this."

"Oh yes."

"Does he know where you went?"

I shook my head. "I just left. I came by myself. I didn't tell anyone."

"Good," he murmured against my ear. "That's very good."

I lifted my mouth to his. "I suppose that he should know. . . ."

"We'll talk about that later," he said.

"But he'll have to know. If I don't go back-"

"You have to go back," he said. It was a breath against my lips, but it startled me.

I jerked away from him. "What?"

"You have to go back," he said. "Come, Lucy, you know this. You can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"Look around you." He motioned impatiently at the room. "You don't belong here."

"But . . ." I stared at him, uncomprehending. "But you can't want me to go back to my husband. Not after this."

"Where else should you go?"

The question had no meaning, no relevance. I could not bend my mind to it. "But we've-"

"You would be ruined, Lucy," he said softly. "If you were to leave him now, I would be ruined."

"I don't care," I said. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Yes, it does."

I was humiliated beyond bearing, but I could not escape him. The room was too close, he was too close. I looked at him in confusion. "I'm falling in love with you," I said miserably.

"Listen to me, Lucy," he said. "You must listen closely. We must be careful. It's not unusual for a patient to form such an attachment to her doctor. Or to mistake feelings of grat.i.tude for love."

"Grat.i.tude? That's absurd. I know the difference."

"Oh, Lucy," he said. "We still have so much work to do." He reached over to the bed, where my hat pins lay scattered, and gathered them up. Then he set my hat on my head, gently-far too gently for any man-fastening it to my hair. He grabbed his coat from the hook by his suit, and then his hat, which he tucked beneath his arm. "It's late. You must go home. Come. I'll take you there."

Chapter 17.

He opened the door and took my hand, and I let him lead me out without a murmur. The old man-his father-and an old woman who must have been his mother sat at a table with another woman who was bent over a sewing machine that she operated in fits and starts.

His mother was sewing by hand, by the light of a kerosene lantern. She was so hunched her eyes were nearly on the fabric. As we came out of the room, her expressionless gaze raked over me, taking in everything, and I felt she knew exactly what had gone on behind that door, what I had done with her son, what I had come for.

He said something to them in German, and they both nodded.

"You should lie down, Mutter," he went on in English. "Your eyes are too tired for that."

"Pssshhh," she said, waving at him in disdain before she bent back to her sewing. The father did not take his gaze from me as we went to the door.

"You be careful, Victor," he said, and then, "Take care, Fraulein."

We went out into the hall, where the darkness was more p.r.o.nounced, and the huddled sleeping bodies were harder to see. Victor held my elbow, directing me down the stairs. At the foot he paused to lift a bundle of bound pieces and move it out of the way, and then we were back into the night, which was cold now, and foggy, and very, very dark.

"Stay close to me," he ordered, though I was pressed into his side, with no desire to leave it. There were only a few people on the street, mostly women. As we pa.s.sed them at a fast clip, one or two of them murmured to Victor, and he called back a greeting.

"You know them?" I asked.

"I grew up here," he told me curtly.

"So you know everyone."

"No." He shook his head. "When I was a boy, these were all German houses-German Jews. Now most of them are from Russia. They aren't like us at all."

"Us? I thought you didn't believe in religion."

"I don't practice Judaism, Lucy, but I can't escape my heritage, no matter how I try. It's changing here, faster than anyone likes. These signs you see all over, they're Yiddish. My parents don't speak it. I don't speak it. My father considers them fanatics. They're clannish and backward. But there are so many of them that any ground we've managed to gain has been stripped away. When your people think Jewish, they no longer think of men like my father, who have come to terms with Western culture, who have even embraced it. They think of the unemployed ma.s.ses in the Khazzer-Mark."

"My people?" I asked, hurt. "You sound so contemptuous of us. Of me."

"Come, now, Lucy," he said. "When you first heard of me, what did you think?"

I remembered Daisy Hadden's words-They say he's a Jew-and my own repulsion that a Jew might touch me.

"You see?" he asked, taking my silence for a.s.sent.

We walked on without speaking. Gaslights were here and there on the streets-dim gas here, while elsewhere in the city, arc lights shone brilliantly. We pa.s.sed men huddled in the corners; on Hester Street the market stalls were empty and the streets were muddy and strewn with whatever garbage was too useless for even the rag-and-bone men. There was sound everywhere: talking and coughing, girls calling out, music.

But we went quickly and soon left it all behind. We were again on Lower Broadway, where the warehouses were shut tight and shops were dark and nothing but the ghosts of the day were left to haunt the streets.

"I'm sorry I don't have a carriage," he said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," I said, but that wasn't the truth. My feet still hurt within my now torn boots, and I was tired and sweating, but these were the least of my discomforts. When we had been near his home, I had not felt like myself. There was no one there to recognize me; I was so profoundly out of place that it seemed I had lost Lucy Carelton. But now we were in places I knew, and I felt myself coming back slowly, bit by bit. I began to watch for bright windows, people staring out, those who would know me. I began to think of the row house where William would no doubt be waiting. I began to wonder what excuse I would make, what I would say to him, where I would tell him I'd been. The lies came easily to me now, when only a short while ago I had thought to end my unhappiness, to tell him the truth.

The truth was so far away already. I'd left it in that little closet of a room, on a cot that shrieked beneath our weight, and the memory was already fading-I could not quite believe it had happened. The man walking beside me now was so distant; had we been intimate? Had I truly felt the pleasure I'd thought I had? Had that been Lucy Carelton or someone else entirely? It seemed impossible to know.

When we were a block from the house, I stopped. "You should leave me here," I said.

He looked down at me and then at the long row of houses that stretched before us, all the same, all guarded by the black iron fences, the fancy stoops, the restrained elegance. This was where I lived. This was who I was.

I had hoped he would argue with me. No, Lucy, I'll walk you to your door. To h.e.l.l with William. To h.e.l.l with all of them. But I was also relieved he did not.

"I'll watch from here until you're safely inside," he said. "What will you tell William?"

"That I went to Millicent's house," I said. "She'll lie for me if he asks her."

"Very well," he said. He released my arm. "I want you to come to my office tomorrow. Around two o'clock."

"I can't do that," I said.

"You can cancel whatever social obligations you have," he said impatiently. "This is important, Lucy."

"No, I- That's not what I mean," I said. "William has . . . Before I left, he burned my sketches, and he accused you. He said it was all your fault. My drawing again. My behavior."

"You didn't tell me any of this."

"No," I said miserably. "He's forbidden me to see you. No doubt he'll come see you himself tomorrow."

"I see," he whispered.

I stood there uncomfortably until I thought he would say nothing else, and then I turned to go. "Well, then. Good-bye."

"Wait." He grabbed my arm, hard enough that I stumbled into him, and he held me tight against his body and put his hand to my cheek and kissed me, and it all rushed back as if it had just happened. The little room, the feel of him, my pleasure, and my desire for him rose up to overwhelm me, so that I cried out in desperation against his lips, "Don't make me go back. Don't make me go."

"Let me talk to him," he said, tangling his fingers in my hair. "I can change his mind."

"There's no need. I can stay with you. There's no need to talk to him at all."

"Ssshhh, Lucy, we've discussed this already. You must go back for now. But you can't stop coming to me, do you understand? Whatever happens, we must find a way to meet."

"Yes," I said, my joy rising at his words. "Yes. Whenever you say. You have only to send word."

"Let me talk to William tomorrow," he said. "I'll send word to you then. Watch for my note, Lucy. If I can't make him see reason, you'll need to make sure he doesn't see it. Can you do that? Can you lie to him?"

"I will," I told him. "Yes. I'll keep it from him."

His hand fell from my face. He gave me a final kiss. "Go on, then," he whispered. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," I answered him, and then I hurried away, warm and rea.s.sured until he was only a shadow blurred by fog and darkness. I was ready to face my husband.

But once I reached the gate, I began to tremble, and I stumbled going up the stoop. I had no key. I hadn't thought of this, of knocking, of waking someone, of facing them all so soon. Before I could ready myself, the door opened, and I tripped over the threshold into light and warmth. Harris caught my arm, steadying me, but before I could say thanks, I saw a shadow looming beyond him. William stood in the hallway, wearing his dressing gown over a pair of trousers, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Lucy," he said. "Thank G.o.d you're home."

He was furious. He stood stiffly, his expression hard, his gaze focused on Harris, who closed the door behind me and held out his hand to receive my cloak and hat. I gave them to him, saying softly, "Make sure Moira cleans them."

William's gaze moved over me with such suppressed anger it seemed to burn. "What happened to your boots?" he asked.

I glanced down. The seams were torn; they were spattered with mud. "I-I stepped in a puddle."

"Take them off," he ordered, and then, to Harris, "Throw them out."

"I need a b.u.t.tonhook," I said. "I'll send them down later."