“Well, you remain, the pleasantest woman I ever knew—in bed.”
Why protest? Let him say all the things he wanted; if they made him feel
better. They did not mean anything—just words.
His voice was unsteady now.
“I want to kiss you again.”
“Yes,” I said.
* * * * *
Was this what I had wanted really, this Peter asleep with his head
against my breast like a child—this passion that was supposed to lessen
first of all things in marriage, but with us had outlasted everything
else, so that it was now the only way we had of talking to each other?
No, I did not want this, much. I wanted Peter as he used to be.
Still, perhaps this could be used in recovering the rest. In the
morning, we would dress and go to breakfast somewhere, and I would be so
gay and amusing at breakfast that Pete would hate to leave, and would
come back, tomorrow, or certainly the next day, and then, gradually
. . . I felt quite warm and happy. It would be lovely, going to
breakfast with Peter.
Judith? Something in me hardened, as I lay with Peter’s tumbled head on
my shoulder. . . . I survived Hilda, perhaps I could survive Judith
too. . . . I went to sleep tranquilly.
* * * * *
But when I woke in the morning Peter was gone.
I did not believe it for a minute; I did not believe that Pete could
leave without a word, as if I were some girl he had met in a speakeasy
the night before; and not found very diverting. Peter would not do that
to me. He had, though, done just that.
I had wanted to go to breakfast with him; I had wanted _so_ to go to
breakfast with him. I began to cry; and got up and hunted for a
handkerchief. Then I saw a note marked “Patricia” on the mantel; and
remembered I had left a note for Rickey, once, and cried harder; so that
I could not see to read it, for a minute.
It said, “Thanks for hospitality. See you again sometime.” That was all.
I went stumbling downstairs to find Lucia. Maybe she could tell me what
to do next. I did not know. I showed her the note. I said, “I hate him;
I’m never going to see him again. I’m going to kiss so many other men I
shan’t remember what he was like. He says I’m a slut; I’ll be a slut,
but never with him, again. Lucia, why did he do this to me?”
“Pat, darling, pull yourself together for a minute. I’m sorry Pat. There
isn’t anything you can do, you know. There . . . cry as much as you like
. . . then we’ll talk.”
I sat and sobbed. Lucia dressed, saying, “You’ll feel better soon,
darling” intermittently.